


Interludes

by MHammerman



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Action & Romance, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 93,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MHammerman/pseuds/MHammerman
Summary: This is an ongoing series of "missing scenes" from after the closing credits and between the main plots, exploring all the conversations, conflicts, and reconnecting we didn't or couldn't see. Mostly Michael/Fiona, with special appearances by other members of the Burn Notice crew. Originally posted elsewhere; sharing here at the urging of friends :)





	1. Costa Rica

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: As it says in the summary, this is an ongoing series of "missing scenes" (or "Interludes," get it ;)) inspired by various episodes. Some of them take place within or between scenes, while others continue past the closing credits. Each chapter is its own short story, and is named after or in reference to the episode with which it intersects. Chapters alternate between Fiona's perspective and Michael's.
> 
> The chapters aren't in chronological order; they're in the order I wrote them, which feels right to me, because my view of this relationship evolves over the course of my writing. Not every chapter is rated "M," but enough of them are for the series as a whole to require that rating. There are no depictions of non-consensual sex, and no particularly graphic depictions of violence. The "M" rating pertains to the sometimes fairly explicit but (I hope!) tasteful sexual content, all of which occurs within a relationship between two consenting adults who, despite all their flaws and challenges, ultimately love each other very much.
> 
> Originally posted on fanfiction.net under the username Marg Hammerman. Re-posted here not because I'm begging for additional kudos, but just to share the love among fans who may not like using ff.net. Review if you like! But most of all… enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer #1: I don't own Burn Notice, or profit (financially) from daydreaming about it.
> 
> Disclaimer #2: My heroes always practice safe sex.

**Set before "Bloodlines," Season 5, Episode 2**

* * *

"M-Michael… a-a-ahhhhh…."

For seven glorious seconds, everything was perfect. For seven seconds, Fiona couldn't think, or even really feel. Her body was all flesh and all of her flesh was liquid, bleeding into everything she touched. Her hot, pulsing skin was one with the cool, wet tiles sliding against her back and the warm water that streamed down her shoulders and collected below her belly button, at the spot where Michael's body met hers, and became an extension of herself. For seven seconds, doubt, fear, and even desire were irrelevant. For seven seconds, she was exactly where she wanted to be. And it was perfect.

Michael's lips sighed against her wet neck before he reluctantly pulled away, kissing her sloppily and contentedly on the way. Neither of them spoke as they took turns washing and rinsing each other clean, reluctant to break the spell of their synchronicity with the messiness of words.

Finally, Fiona turned off the water and slid open the shower's glass door. With her damp feet buried in a thick bathmat, she shucked two clean white towels off the rack.

As Michael dried his hair, Fiona let her eyes wander over his water-slick nakedness. For the first time in a long time, his hard curves were supplemented with evidence of semi-regular meals and sleep; there was a healthful roundness to his muscles that was different from the tense hunger of even a few months before.

Michael sensed her gaze, and smiled lopsidedly under his towel. "Surprised you're not bored by that landscape."

"A connoisseur appreciates the subtle changes," she assured him, proudly displaying her own hard curves while she squeezed water from her tangled hair.

Michael's smile tightened as he quickly swept his towel downward and tied it around his hips, eyes finding every excuse to avoid hers. Fiona found herself caught between an almost-laugh and an almost-eye-roll. Not for the first time, she marveled at her power to so easily rupture the confident façade of a man who'd been the terror of Russia, a CIA legend, and the biggest mistake in the career of the shadow organization that burned him.

Pulling her own towel tight around her breasts, Fiona led the way out of the bathroom. Bypassing the bedroom with its still-rumpled sheets, she headed through the sitting room to the kitchen. Michael followed her, easily catching the container of blueberry yogurt she tossed in his direction over the open door of the fridge.

Fiona started the coffee maker, then joined Michael at the lattice wood table beside the glass patio doors. The doors looked out on a small yard of close-cut, dark green grass, surrounded on three sides by thick swaths of jungle alive with twittering birds. Fiona blinked into the morning sun, then followed its path through the foliage and into the kitchen, where it sliced through the doors to pin a halo over Michael's tanned, bare shoulders. That Michael was oblivious of the pastoral tableau only added to its effect; he was leaning back in his chair and staring carelessly into the middle distance, as though nothing existed in the world except the sun and his cup of yogurt.

It was day two of their three scheduled days of rest and relaxation in a very private parcel of Costa Rica. Their privacy came courtesy of a US government training facility rather than a five-star resort, but even Fiona had to admit the amenities weren't bad. The officer's quarters in which they were staying had a king-size bed, a rainwater shower, and a well-stocked fridge and bar; they were also directly connected to a secluded beach via a short, tree-lined walking path. And unlike most five-star resorts, the facility had a fabulous shooting range and all manner of firepower to practice with.

It was the first vacation Fiona and Michael ever taken together—the first time, in their more than ten years of intermittent intimacy, that they'd ever been presented with the prospect of three full days with no responsibilities beyond each other's company. Yet the promise of relaxation produced its own anxieties. To board the commercial plane that brought them, Fiona had been forced to travel weaponless; she was already missing the shape of her Walther under her pillow and the comforting pinch of the Baby Browning she customarily strapped to her thigh when penetrating unfamiliar territory. Yet she also knew that how much she missed her guns was a sign of how badly she needed some time away from what her life had become—namely, a sea of paranoia and a series of never-ending crises. And so, she was willing to try sleeping on a gun-less pillow, at least for a few days; the fact that Michael had invited her on the trip proved he was willing to try, too. Eyes sweeping deliberately over Michael's angelic near-nakedness, Fiona smiled inwardly, remembering there were other ways to distract her restless hands.

Those ways had eluded her on their first day in Costa Rica. After a long, indirect flight and a rough, cross-country Jeep ride, they'd been greeted by an exceedingly deferential collection of military personnel who were clearly eager to make a good impression. Fiona had no idea who they thought Michael was, but they seemed to think he was someone worth impressing; throughout the afternoon, Fiona had been both amused and discomfited to see so many serious men and women in pressed and polished uniforms salute and call Michael "sir." Michael had clearly been embarrassed by the attention, though Fiona wasn't sure whether that embarrassment was rooted in the attention itself or her reaction to it; more than once, she'd shot him a glance in response to a particularly committed salute and seen his jaw clench, his eyes pleading with her not to say whatever smart remark they both knew was on the tip of her tongue.

Because of the military personnel's enthusiasm, Fiona hadn't seen Michael for much of the afternoon. She'd been left to unpack their bags while Michael had been swept off on a tour of the facility that she, as a "civilian," hadn't been welcome to attend. Never one to take no for an answer, Fiona had deployed a cute sundress and a ditzy girlfriend act to secure her own private tour, on which she'd seen many things she probably shouldn't have—like a whole rack of shiny new Heckler & Koch MP7s being loaded into the armory. Michael had returned from his official tour in the early evening, in time to share a light dinner. But he'd left again soon after, taking a long run that was ostensibly for exercise, but was really, she knew, about surveillance. They'd both been through too much in recent years to not look a gift horse in the mouth, or relax without establishing a perimeter and a few escape routes; while Michael circled the base, Fiona had made a thorough survey of the house, counting windows, doors, and latches, and scoping out sight lines to and from each one. Exhausted from travelling and everything they'd both done to make sure it was safe to sleep, they'd gone to bed early, but together; Fiona had fallen asleep tucked under Michael's arm, his heart beneath her ear.

The coffee maker clicked off, and Michael rose to attend to it. Fiona watched him closely as he poured them each a large mug of the local blend. The healthful fullness of his muscles didn't completely disguise the weariness in his joints. Semi-regular sleep was better than no sleep, but it wasn't as good as regular sleep. And Michael, Fiona knew, hadn't been getting regular sleep. While they'd fallen asleep together the night before, Fiona had woken up alone.

Fiona offered a small smile as Michael presented her coffee, hoping it reached her eyes and wishing she could be as careless as she'd been ten minutes before, with her back squeaking against the wet tiles and her thighs cinched around Michael's hips. Life with Michael had a tendency to do that—to pivot from one crisis to the next before the former was properly resolved.

Yet they were, for once, living in the aftermath of a once-unimaginable resolution. As of a week ago, the organization that had burned Michael four years ago and stranded him in Miami was finally gone, its every piece dismantled, all of its members either dead or in jail. Fiona was happy about the downfall of Vaughn and Management's organization. After everything that organization had done to Michael—and to herself, Sam, Madeline, Nate, and so many others—she only wished she'd been the one pulling the triggers and conducting the interrogations. But she also felt strangely melancholy about what seemed like the end of an era. Fiona couldn't ignore the fact that if Michael hadn't been burned, she might have never seen him again, let alone had a chance to build a relationship with him that was different and deeper than anything they'd shared before. Eleven years ago, she'd been sure Michael was the love of her life; now, she knew she'd never really understood the meaning of that phrase. The past four years had been fraught with pain and hardship, but they'd also demanded more courage and love than Fiona had once thought she could give.

Sometime during the past six months, while Michael had been employed as a CIA asset helping hunt down the names on the NOC list, much of that pain and hardship had, against all odds, given way to a semblance of comfortable routine. Though Michael had often been gone for weeks at a time, each reunion had begun with great sex and ended with easy conversation, provided, of course, they avoided all the things Michael wasn't allowed to talk about. On those occasions when Michael had been back for at least a few days, they'd even begun doing a few "normal" things together, like going out for coffee and browsing the outdoor malls at Brickell and Lincoln Road. Somewhere along the way, Michael had also started referring to her as his girlfriend; he'd introduced her as such to his new handler, Max, a couple of weeks before, reciting the word with a soft gravity that was more for her benefit than Max's.

Fiona wanted to believe in the permanency of their recent equanimity. Yet in her heart, she doubted it. A week and a day ago, Michael's life had been focused around a mission as large and important as anything he'd ever pursued; now, both of their lives had returned to a condition of uncertainty. It was a different uncertainty, one no longer tied to a simple, brutal struggle to survive. But in that, it was also a more complex uncertainty. A week and a day ago, they'd been staring down the barrel of a gun; now, they were stranded in a potential minefield.

Tomorrow and the next day and the next weeks after that, Fiona knew she'd want the same thing that the purest, most honest part of her had always wanted. She'd want Michael—in her bed and by her side, watching the exits and covering her escapes, soldering detonators for her C-4 and helping celebrate every victory with fine spirits and the only thing better than speed or glorious violence. For once, Fiona was sure Michael wanted some version of the same. But she'd also learned the hard way that what Michael wanted and what he might actually do could be two very different things. More often than not, Michael was least likely to take the things he wanted most, precisely because of how badly he wanted them.

Curling her fingers around the warmth of her smooth white coffee mug, Fiona walked to the threshold of the patio doors. Even through the glass, the landscape hummed with energy, not just birds, but also the low rustle of leaves and the steady drone of insects. As she looked out at the yard and the jungle and the invisible beach beyond them, it occurred to her that she was standing very near to where she'd found Michael during the dark hours of the morning, after she'd woken up and found his warmth missing from the bed.

Her pulse had pounded when she'd realized Michael's absence, and pounded louder when she'd reached under the pillow and remembered she didn't have her Walther. Armed with only her fists and the lace-trimmed romper she'd slept in, she'd climbed out of bed and tread carefully through the small sitting room toward the kitchen, expecting the worst. She'd breathed a sigh of relief when she'd found Michael watching the night through the patio doors, wearing a white undershirt and a pair of grey cotton pants.

That relief had evaporated the moment she'd lain a hand on his shoulder, and felt his clammy sweat. At her touch, Michael had seized his wrists and whirled to face her, his wide blue eyes boring all the way into hers. Having lived a life that routinely involved automatic weapons and home-made explosives, Fiona didn't scare easily. Yet in that moment, the look in Michael's eyes had scared her—badly. For a moment, Michael hadn't recognized her, his eyes announcing a total incomprehension that had cut to the depths of her soul. Fiona hadn't been scared of what Michael might do to her; she could handle violence, even Michael's violence. Instead, she'd been scared that Michael had lost his mind.

Thankfully, the moment had passed quickly. A few seconds after Michael had grabbed her wrists, he'd blinked, and released them. No longer scared but nonetheless thoroughly unnerved, Fiona had led Michael back to bed. For a while, they'd lain side by side, shoulders touching enough to feel the slowing of each other's pulses. But when Fiona had woken again several hours later, Michael had once more been missing. That time, she'd found him half-asleep in an uncomfortable-looking, straight-backed chair in the sitting area, a biography of William J. Casey extracted from the bookshelf lying open in his lap. From there, she'd coaxed him into the shower. And then, for a little while, everything had been perfect.

Fiona felt Michael's eyes on her back. When she turned from the jungle, she saw him watching her with an expression she quickly recognized as disguised worry. Thinking again about the early hours of the morning, she realized that while Michael had been standing to the side of the patio doors, she was standing in front of them, an easy target for a sniper perched in any number of tree branches.

Fiona stepped away from the window and leaned back against the counter, still facing Michael where he sat at the table.

"So," she began brightly, "what do you want to do today?"

Michael sipped his coffee, worry now convincingly contained. "Anything you want."

"I'd love to take a look at those new MP7s I saw at the armory…"

Michael's eyes narrowed. "When were you at the armory?"

"Yesterday."

His expression pressed for more details.

"While you were out on your little tour," she clarified.

"Do our hosts know you took your own tour?"

"I can be very persuasive," she assured him.

For a moment, she was sure Michael was going to chastise her. But instead he merely sipped his coffee, and nodded.

"I'm sure I can arrange something," he promised. "There's a really nice shooting range over by the—"

"I know."

"Right…" Michael took another sip of coffee, before adding, "And I'm sorry about yesterday. It wasn't my idea, believe me."

"You didn't like your rock star treatment?" she teased.

"Fi..."

"All those salutes! I'm surprised no one asked for your autograph…"

Michael gave up protesting and leaned forward on the table, dropping his chin into his hand.

"I felt bad for them, really," Fiona continued. "They've clearly mistaken you for someone important."

Michael gazed at her expectantly, more bemused than annoyed.

"Are you finished?" he asked, speaking through the fingers that cupped his chin and cheek.

Fiona smiled to herself, glad to have spent at least some of the quips she'd been storing up since the day before.

"For now," she offered.

In the silence that followed, Fiona sipped her coffee and tried not to think about everything else she'd felt watching Michael being saluted. Each salute had also signaled the major rift between his life and hers, in the past, and maybe the future. Fiona was unwilling to fracture the current calm by directly invoking that rift. Yet she couldn't resist a stealth approach.

Studying the dark surface of her dwindling coffee, she asked, "So you don't miss your days in uniform?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Michael release a breath, and lean back again in his chair.

"There's a reason I worked so hard to get out of one," he said.

"I thought you liked following the rules."

"I did—for a while."

"And then?"

"I liked it less."

Michael turned toward the window, making it clear that he was done discussing the topic. Fiona regarded his profile over the lip of her mug. She'd seen photographs of Michael from his army days, but couldn't quite connect those images to the man she knew. In the two photographs Madeline possessed, Michael was an unbelievably gangly teenager, trying, with his stance and his dark, serious expression, to take up far more space than he did. Where Michael's teenage self fought so hard to stand out, the man Fiona knew would never try to advertise his power or defiance in that way, not unless he was on a job, playing a character. The Michael Fiona knew preferred to be underestimated and unremarked upon, watching everything, but never watched.

"In all seriousness, though," she said after a moment, "all of these uniforms do make me a bit nervous. I keep wondering if they just lured us here to ship us off to Guantanamo."

"The thought did cross my mind," Michael admitted, "when Max handed me the plane tickets."

Fiona looked at him, eyes widening. "And you didn't say anything?"

Michael shrugged. "Either I was wrong, and we'd have our first vacation in… well, ever… or I was right, and I'd have my favourite tactical support on-hand for going off the grid in a country with comparatively lax airport security."

Fiona's lips pursed into the warm smile she hadn't quite managed a few minutes before. "Sweet talker."

A rare playfulness wrinkled the scar around Michael's left eye. "I know how much you love a good hijacking."

Fiona swallowed and pressed her tongue against the back of her teeth, wondering about this new version of Michael that was both different and similar to the old one. This version of Michael was still wary of her attention, yet newly willing to court it; he was still looking for snipers in the tree branches, yet willing to attempt a leisurely, half-naked breakfast, despite it all.

Fiona broke the moment by emptying the final sip of her now-lukewarm coffee down the drain and rinsing the white mug in a cool stream of water.

"Speaking of getting off the grid…" she began, as she turned off the tap. "I also spotted a couple of Kawasakis down by the mess hall…"

She glanced over her shoulder in time to see Michael's expression turn cold, jaw tightening where he gritted his teeth inside his mouth.

"What?" she asked innocently.

"Maybe you don't remember the last time we went riding together…"

"Oh, I remember…"

The last time had been in Berlin, shortly after she'd discovered he wasn't really Michael McBride. Part of the job had included a safe deposit smash and grab, from which they'd fled aboard a black Ducati that Michael had agreed to let her drive. He shouldn't have done so; while they were both excellent riders, he'd been more familiar with the terrain. But when she'd challenged him, he'd backed down easily, behaviour which had only stoked her smouldering anger.

With Michael's larger body tucked tight behind hers, she'd pushed the bike to its limits zigzagging through the city to the drop point, bending low on her turns and cutting close to the edges of every car and building. She'd been trying to scare Michael, or even hurt him, wanting him to feel something of what she'd so recently been made to feel—stupid, naïve, and vulnerable.

She'd never know if she scared him, but she had ended up hurting him. On the way to ditch the bike after the drop, she'd confronted an illegally parked truck around a blind corner, and pulled into a bad skid in a pothole of loose gravel. She might have broken her arm if Michael hadn't shielded her body with his, tearing a gravel-filled gash up the side of his right shoulder. Her indignation at Michael's noble sacrifice had dissipated in the back room of an all-night "pharmacy," where Michael had received some grisly stitches that would leave a scar he still had. She'd then expressed her contrition by scamming them a suite at the rebuilt Adlon Hotel, where they'd spent the rest of the night and most of the next morning skin-to-skin between very white, very soft Egyptian cotton sheets. Michael, loopy from blood loss and an ill-advised combination of expired painkillers and Kuemmerling, had giggled between moans of pleasure as she'd sucked his fingers and a dozen other body parts, finally passing out with his face in the hollow of her ribs, drooling into her belly button.

In the present, Fiona could tell Michael had been remembering the same sequence of events; his jaw no longer clenched, but rather hung loosely, his lips not quite open, but wanting to be.

Though she'd been the one to evoke it, spending time with the memory had the opposite effect on Fiona. The appealing present vision of Michael's loose lips and the memory of his giddy, drug-induced pleasure warred with a clearer image of his face creased by stifled tears of pain as the disbarred doctor with the dirty fingernails and shaky hands picked tiny stones out of the oozing, crimson cavern of his split flesh.

"You didn't get much sleep last night," she said, surprised by the smallness of her own voice in the suddenly heavy air.

Michael dropped his eyes. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"You didn't."

"It doesn't happen every night," he offered, his own voice sounding implausibly far away.

"Do you remember them—the dreams?"

Michael shook his head slowly, still looking down at his hands where they rested on the table. "Not really. Just… feelings."

"What kind of feelings?"

"It's just post-mission stress," he evaded. "It'll pass."

Fiona tightened her towel and crossed her arms over her breasts, feeling more naked than she wanted to be and hating it, the perfection of the shower now seeming like a distant, impossible dream.

Her voice was still uncomfortably small as she asked, "Why did you let me drive that night?"

Michael looked up, and met her eyes.

"I wanted to prove I trusted you," he said.

"And where did that get you."

She'd meant it be a joke, but it came out flat, mangled by lingering bitterness.

Michael regarded her earnestly as he said, "It got me home."

When he was undercover, Michael always knew the right thing to say. Years ago, Michael McBride had easily parried her every anxiety and attack, usually with the aid of a glittering smile infused with danger and mischief. Michael Westen's words were simpler, less dependable, and not always more honest. But sometimes, they were honest; occasionally, they were also perfect.

Fiona closed her eyes, and let competing images flicker behind her lids: she saw Michael McBride's beautiful but deceitful smile, and Michael Westen's face twisted by an expression of either pain or desperate pleasure, his quivering lips forming the shape of her name without ever quite producing the sound.

When she opened her eyes, she shifted her weight under the intensity of Michael's lingering gaze, searching for a solidity her own body could no longer provide.

"When do you want to go to the range?" she asked.

"Doesn't matter."

"You don't have any top secret meetings, or reports to fill out, or state dinners to attend?"

"We're on vacation," Michael stated, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Fiona's brow creased. "Meaning…?"

"We've got all the time in the world."

Fiona thought she should know the expression from somewhere, but couldn't place it, any more than she could place Michael's mood.

"Are you tired?" she asked.

"No."

Fiona's fingers squeezed and released her biceps.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"No…"

They never made it to the shooting range. Instead, they woke again in the pale glow of the afternoon and ransacked the kitchen for food, grilling red snapper drizzled with lime juice followed by a dessert of fresh mangoes and most of a very fine bottle of Glenlivet they found stashed behind the liquor cabinet's more prominently displayed rum and tequila. Michael rarely drank to excess; including the Berlin mission, Fiona could count on one hand the times she'd seen him truly inebriated, and the only time in Miami had been part of a job. But when he did drink, he committed to it with the same skill and dedication he brought to every other mission. And when he drank with her, the enterprise acquired the same undercurrent of competition that informed so much of their relationship, both on the job and beyond it. When they'd polished off the Glenlivet, they opened a bottle of Herradura.

Fiona's head was swimming by the time the sun began to set, pale yellow light fading and sizzling into a surreal orange glow. Not that she was aware of the sun or the time. Her body was numb save the feel of the short, sharp paring knife and furry kiwi in her hands, and her steadily narrowing field of vision was consumed by the large black discs of Michael's pupils inside the deep blue frame of his irises. Her hands maintained an excruciatingly even pressure as she sightlessly and ever-so-slowly flayed the small, delicate, fruit. By the time she placed the slippery smooth result at the center of the table that separated them, her liquor-warm brow was misted with sweat, her heart thumping loudly in her tight chest.

Fiona relied on muscle memory to keep her empty hand from trembling as she reached across the table for the bottle of tequila, and poured two more generous shots. Michael watched her seriously as she raised her glass and swallowed the golden yellow liquid. Her own eyes bobbed with the motion of Michael's stubble-dusted adam's apple, following his swallow into the faintly shiny groove of his chest.

Michael set down his glass and withdrew his right hand, then picked up the knife and another, fresh kiwi with his left hand.

Fiona concentrated on each syllable as she said, "That's impossible."

Michael's voice was similarly thick as he replied, "Watch me."

His dark gaze unwavering, he positioned the fruit between his fingers and balanced the knife against his thumb. Fiona's own gaze flickered between Michael's too-black eyes and too-calm fingers as he rotated the tiny fruit again and again, producing a continuous, meticulously even peel. With each turn of the fruit between Michael's deft digits, the air grew thinner, her brow damper. In place of drying her sweat, Fiona dampened her lips, her tongue like sandpaper on their liquor-parched planes.

On the second-to-last turn, Michael's thumb finally slipped, opening a narrow, scarlet slash down the outside edge of his index finger. Michael didn't flinch; as bright red blood trickled over his knuckle, he continued the steady motion of the knife around what was left of the kiwi's fuzzy brown skin. Finally, he completed his task, and placed the sticky fruit on the table beside the wet halo of her glass. Fiona didn't look at the fruit. She was too busy shivering in her suddenly cold sweat as she watched Michael slowly and deliberately suck a mixture of blood and watery green juice up the length of his injured finger.

The next time they woke, it was dark with a half-moon hanging low in the sky. The following day and in the tumultuous weeks to come, Fiona wouldn't clearly remember everything that happened next. The beginning would be fairly distinct; she'd remember striding boldly toward the patio doors, sliding them open, and walking barefoot into the soft, deep grass toward the beach, never looking back, yet sure Michael would follow. But the next moments would be a dreamlike haze, existing only as a series of fragmented sensations and images, timeless in their disorder. She would remember the scrape of sand on skin and the trickle of water that was cooler than the sticky air creeping up her twisting thighs. She would remember a beloved pair of lips whispering her full first name into her ear, again and again and with increasingly urgency, until it became a sound more than a word. She would also remember one hauntingly perfect image of Michael: naked on his knees in the gently buffeting waves, content to stare forever into the surface of the moon until she joined him, and sucked his salty face.

Fiona woke for a fourth time in less than twenty-four hours with a surge of adrenaline and a splitting headache, her right hand clenching around an absent object that became a fistful of sheets. Michael's unconscious face was on the white pillow next to hers, his black hair and the crest of his cheek flecked with grains of white sand. Fiona ran her tongue over her mossy teeth; her mouth was dry and thick with tequila aftertaste, but there was no trace of the blood she was sure she'd tasted a moment before.

She shifted away from Michael toward the pinkish glow of the sunrise, which dribbled over the threshold of the bedroom from the kitchen's patio doors. Through a sleep-cloudy fog, she thought about her snow globes. She thought about the perfection of their tiny terrariums, and how big and incomprehensible the world beyond must seem to anyone trapped inside. She also thought about their fragility, about how their perfection was so easily shattered, and impossible to reassemble.

Her melancholic reverie was broken by the movement of Michael's body. He twitched in his sleep, and mumbled a small cluster of incomprehensible words. Fiona tensed, preparing for the start of another nightmare.

But the nightmare never came. Instead, Michael reached a hand around her hip, pulling her tight against his body as he slid his bare thigh between her legs, his sand-flecked cheek nuzzling the back of her neck. Soon, he was once more deeply asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm against her spine.

Fiona closed her eyes. Moment by moment, the sharp pain in her head bled out into the gentle pulse of Michael's body where it twined with hers, and became an extension of herself.

Soon, Fiona realized that the daylight world beyond the patio doors could wait. For now, she was right where she wanted to be. And it was perfect.

**~END~ **(for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** Thanks for reading! If you liked what you read, hope you'll leave a review!

Notes on a couple of references: William J. Casey was Director of the CIA during the 80s (i.e. during the time of some rather sordid dealings in Latin America). "We Have All the Time in the World" is a reference to the James Bond film/novel On Her Majesty's Secret Service (aka "the one where Bond gets married"). I suggested in a previous fic that Michael likes that particular film (or at least, sees something of Diana Rigg's Tracey in Fiona), so maybe his reference was intentional—I'll leave it to you to decide ;)


	2. Seek and Destroy

**Set during and after the final moments of "Seek and Destroy," ** **Season 2, Episode 12**

* * *

Michael resisted the urge to run as he exited the wide, arched door of Seymour's palatial South Beach home, a piece of paper he'd worked very hard to get clutched in his hand. Seymour was useful, but what Fiona had once called his "eccentricities" were exhausting when they weren't outright dangerous. The first time Michael had met Seymour, the arms dealer had tricked him into two armed standoffs before attempting to strangle him with an aluminum baseball bat in a bout of paranoia. There was also the matter of Seymour's strange fascination with him, not to mention his fascination with Fiona, and his even-stranger fascination with the combination of himself and Fiona. Michael was fairly certain that particular aspect of Seymour's behaviour was largely harmless. But that hadn't made it any less trying to deal with. Michael was already unusually preoccupied by thoughts and memories of his physical chemistry with Fiona. He'd been that way for days, ever since the night of the fire, when he'd thought Fiona had died, then made tearful, desperate love to her for the first time in months.

Past the concrete walkway lined with carefully groomed beds of white Snapdragons and coral Touch-Me-Nots, he found Fiona slouched against the hood of her black Saab, her dark clothes dappled with icy blue light from the multi-tiered, burbling fountain at the centre of the circular driveway. Like himself, she was still dressed for the mission to extract Poole. For Fiona, that consisted of boot-cut jeans, a pair of close-toed wedge boots, and a tightly fitting tank top. Without trying, she looked stunning, illuminated rather than diminished by the mundane simplicity of her attire.

"I got the account number of the guy that hired Poole to kill me," said Michael, coming up beside her. "I just need to turn it into a name."

Fiona pushed herself upright but didn't have time to respond before Seymour's voice projected from the open doorway of the house.

"Hey! I almost forgot..."

Seymour jogged breathlessly but energetically down the walkway toward them, brandishing two small cherry wood boxes.

"Here," Seymour declared, presenting a box to each of them. "It's, uh, a little something I had made for... Well, it's in honor of our first operation."

Michael and Fiona looked at the boxes, then at Seymour, then at each other.

"Go on," Seymour urged, practically vibrating with nervous excitement. "Open 'em."

In unison, they very cautiously opened the cherry wood lids. Michael didn't know what he was expecting, but he was nonetheless surprised to find a thin silver dagger resting on a bed of white silk. Fiona extracted an identical dagger from her own box.

"Ooohh…" Fiona didn't quite enthuse. "Matching throwing daggers. That's very… _thoughtful_ of you, Seymour."

"And if you look at the engraving, there," said Seymour, leaning in close to touch the hilt of Michael's dagger, "it means '_destiny_.'"

Michael exchanged another look with Fiona, then turned his attention to Seymour.

"It's a symbol of your bond," Seymour told them seriously.

"Of our bond, actually," he added quickly, retrieving a third dagger in a brown leather scabbard from one of the deep pockets of his very wrinkled white linen suit. "I made one for myself, too."

Michael regarded the unkempt arms dealer blankly, at a loss as to how to respond to his thoroughly unexpected gift. He didn't want to seem ungrateful, but he also didn't want to encourage such gestures, or give any false impressions about their non-existent friendship.

Luckily, Seymour's awkwardness saved Michael from his own. "Well, I uh… I should get back. Don't want to leave _Jackass_ alone too long with the captive."

With that, Seymour spun on his heel and trundled back toward the house, wrinkly suit billowing around his ungainly bodily. Michael and Fiona both watched the arms dealer until he disappeared into the house, and then looked down again at their gifts.

"That was… kinda sweet…" Fiona offered.

Michael fingered the edge of his dagger, the shape reminding him of the delicate groove of muscle in Fiona's lean forearm.

"You know," he began, "the morning after we… I brought you a Spanish omelette. Egg white only. But, you were gone."

"My favourite," Fiona intoned, fingering her own dagger.

She looked up to add, "Maybe next time, I'll have to stay."

Michael's lips twitched at the obvious implication of her words, but he couldn't quite bring himself to smile. He disliked the uncertainty of the word "maybe," and hated the persistent though increasingly powerless part of himself that wanted to tell her, directly and unequivocally, that there could never be a next time.

He put the dagger back in the cherry wood box and closed it, wishing it was as easy to close a lid on his racing thoughts.

"C'mon," he said. "We should go."

They tossed their matching daggers into the back seat of the Saab, and made what Michael hoped would be a final departure from Seymour's house.

As they pulled out of the driveway, Fiona asked, "So does Seymour have a crush on _you_… or on _us_?"

Michael shook his head. "I don't want to think about it."

"And does he want to be _involved_, or does he just want to _watch_…?"

"_Really_ don't want to think about it…"

"And to think, just the other day, you were complaining about a lack of possible side jobs…"

Fiona flashed a brief, playful smile as his eyes shot across to hers.

"I'm just saying," she defended, touching her collarbone in a gesture of heartfelt innocence.

"I suppose I'd owe you a commission on that, too."

"_Commission_? More like a producer's credit and a piece of distribution."

Michael finally smiled, but not comfortably. He knew Fiona was trying to lighten the mood, but the banter hit a bit too close to home. It had been five days since the fire, yet the events of that night still burned very bright in his mind, as well as his body. The night of the fire had been the first time he'd been with Fiona since Campbell, and the first time since he'd been back in Miami that he'd initiated it. It had also been the first time since Ireland that he'd admitted, to either Fiona or himself, how badly he needed her.

When he'd thought Fiona was dead, it had been like losing part of himself, like a critical piece of him had been cruelly severed, leaving him physically crippled and fearful of his own shape and boundaries. Finding her at the loft had been like a miracle. And making love to her had been like rediscovering himself. For as long as she would let him and his own exhausted flesh would comply, he'd tested and compared his body's every uncertain boundary in and against her impossible solidity and divine warmth. Afterwards, he'd struggled to sleep, worrying each time he closed his eyes that he'd wake up and realize finding Fiona in the loft had been a wishful, feverish dream. His insomnia had contributed to his waking early to pick up breakfast. He'd also hoped breakfast would provide a good excuse to linger—in the bed, the shower, or anywhere else Fiona would have him.

He'd been genuinely frightened for the second time in as many days when he'd returned with Fiona's Spanish omelette and found Carla in her stead. Michael knew as well as anyone that Fiona was more than capable of taking care of herself; but Carla was capable of taking care of a lot of things, especially if it helped keep him under her thumb. He'd been uncharacteristically aggressive in response to Carla's not-so-vaguely worded threats, because he'd been upset, but also to reassure Carla that he was dangerous, too.

After Carla had finally left, he'd called Fiona, and gotten her voicemail, the same voicemail he'd heard too many times the night before, when he'd crisscrossed the city a dozen times, searching and re-searching every rendezvous point and secret meeting place while leaving a series of increasingly frantic messages on her burned-out phone. Toward the end of the night, he'd been calling just to hear Fiona's recorded voice vibrate against his ear, needing to feel a connection to her absent body, however illusory.

Since that night, Michael had tried to keep Fiona close, but had been completely incapable of getting as close as he wanted to. Each of the times he'd invited Fiona to lunch or a planning session at the loft, he'd not-so-secretly hoped she might help him with his dilemma—that she'd do what she so often did, and force him to take the things he wanted. And for the past five days, what he'd wanted was to relive the aftermath of the fire—when they'd come together lying naked on their sides with his left leg hooked over her right one, moving at a languorous pace with his hands clenched around the strongest, softest part of her and knotted in the hair at the back of her neck.

As Michael had longed to get closer, Fiona had withdrawn. At Seymour's pool party, she'd called the night of the fire "blowing off steam," and challenged him to say something—anything—to contradict her. She'd challenged him again at the loft and a third time at Carlito's to admit the meaning behind what they'd done—or, more accurately, what _he'd_ done. In the daylight aftermath of that nightmarish-turned-dreamlike night, Michael hadn't been able to admit anything of the sort. Acknowledging his physical need for Fiona's body was bad enough; his emotional needs were a whole other matter. None of his many special skills could help him explain what he'd felt when he'd returned to the loft with breakfast, and found Fiona missing. Carla's presence had scared him, but he'd also been scared by Fiona's seeming callousness. When he'd first returned to Miami, Michael had felt secure in the knowledge that Fiona would be there as long as he was, available whenever he needed her. Campbell had challenged that assumption, but the fire and the morning after had shattered it. Michael was still reeling from the way the thought of losing Fiona had disordered his mind and body. But he was equally disturbed by the newly risen fear that he might need Fiona more than she needed him.

Fiona shifted into high gear as they merged onto the causeway. Before long, they'd be at her bungalow in Coconut Grove, where he'd left the Charger. Then, he'd be on his way back to the loft, to eat a late dinner alone, and stare at the haunted monument of the bed that still somehow smelled of Fiona's shampoo and the residue of smoke, even though he'd changed the sheets more than once.

"Why didn't you stay?"

Michael was surprised by the sound of his own voice in the quiet car, half wondering if he'd actually spoken, or if it was just another thing he'd wanted to do, but couldn't.

"You were gone when I woke up," Fiona replied, eyes on the road.

"But you knew I'd come back."

"Did I?"

"It was my place," he observed.

"So was the Dublin flat."

Michael bit his cheek. He'd had plenty of time to rehearse and lock away the pain and guilt of what he'd done in Ireland. But almost losing Fiona five days ago had reopened old wounds.

"Besides," Fiona said after a moment, "I had a meeting that morning."

Michael studied her profile. "What type of meeting?"

"The type of meeting I thought you wouldn't want to know about," she said brusquely, her playful tone of a few minutes before now thoroughly abandoned.

"Because you thought I wouldn't approve of it."

"_Because_—you've got the FBI, the CSS, and who knows who else keeping tabs on you at any given time."

"So it was a gun deal," he surmised.

Fiona remained silent.

Michael clenched his jaw as he looked away. He'd hoped Fiona might have given up her gun dealing. While she'd been with Campbell, she'd seemed to be doing fewer things that were quite so obviously and seriously dangerous. But where Campbell had been a good influence in that regard, he was apparently a bad one.

"Why do you do that, Fi?"

"Do what?"

"You know what."

He saw Fiona release a quick, angry breath, eyes narrowing on the road. "To pay for the finer things in life—like a roof over my head and enough free time to do copious favours for burned spies."

"The Fiona Glenanne I used to know didn't do things just for the money."

"And what would you have me do, Michael? Join the CIA? Do the same thing on behalf of Uncle Sam?"

"Is that really what you think I do?"

"Is that what you think _I _do?"

She shot him a sharp look as she said it, and for a moment, their eyes met. Michael ground his clenched teeth, angry, then frustrated, and finally defeated by how beautiful she looked, her tanned cheeks flushed with emotion, her hazel eyes damp and glistening in the dark.

"I just don't…" he trailed off helplessly, lowering his gaze.

"What?" she demanded.

"I don't want us to end up on opposite sides," he finished quietly.

Fiona dropped her jaw and then clamped it shut, returning her attention to the road.

Michael closed his eyes and released a weary breath, wondering how everything had gone so wrong, so quickly. "Fi, I didn't mean—"

"Because what you did for the CIA was _so_ noble," she spat back. "Propping up dictators and quelling rebellions."

"I've _never_—"

"Are you sure?"

It was a valid question. Even before the burn notice, the CIA had often lied to him and mistreated him, from the front office and on the ground. Michael wasn't loyal to the agency because he trusted it, but because he truly believed it could be a force for good. Staying inside the agency was the only way to help guarantee that goodness, and keep it from falling victim to the toxic forces that were continually trying to destroy it—forces like Carla and whoever she worked for.

"I'm sure I've always tried to do the right thing," he offered.

"That's not a denial."

His temper flared again at her simplifications—her refusal to see or understand the bigger picture.

"And what about you, Fi? Do you know where all those guns go, after you sell them? Do you know what they're _used_ for?"

Fiona made a humourless sound. "Just when I think you can't get any more sanctimonious…"

She shook her head to clear it, her hands flexing on the wheel.

"I don't sell heavy artillery and I _never_ do high volume. The people I buy from rip off the big dealers—the same kind of evil bastards _your_ CIA probably deals with. And the people who buy from me could easily get the merchandise somewhere else."

She wasn't wrong, but it didn't matter. Her gun dealing was going to get her into trouble, it was only a matter of time. And when she got into trouble, he'd get into trouble. Because regardless of what he'd said a moment before about being on different sides, Michael knew that if and when it really came down to it, he'd always be on Fiona's side.

Fiona was waiting for a response, but Michael wasn't sure what he could possibly say to try and express even a fraction of what he was thinking. In the course of the past fifteen minutes, he'd moved from melancholy happiness to anger to frustration to whatever he was feeling now, which was some combination of all the above overlaid with a healthy portion of lingering, nagging desire. With each moment that passed, it became more difficult to deny the havoc Fiona's warm, passionate proximity was wreaking on his senses. It was hard to sit still, yet somehow impossible to move; usually manageable stimulants, like the motion of her hair and the closeness of her familiar scent, were making him uncomfortably, embarrassingly warm.

Finally, Michael settled for voicing a well-worn, thoroughly inadequate phrase. "I'm sorry, Fi."

"No," she said. "You're not."

Before Michael could either apologize for apologizing or contradict her, the Saab make an unhealthy sputtering sound. The car roared once as Fiona tapped on the gas, and then wheezed, forcing Fiona to pull over onto the highway's gravel shoulder, where she thrust the car into park and turned off the sick engine.

"Sounds like your alternator," said Michael.

"That's not what it is," Fiona replied tersely.

"How do you—"

"It's from the thing I was doing the other day."

"Well, I can't help you fix it unless I know what's wrong, so…"

"My fuel tank has a hole in it."

"How did that happen?"

Fiona shot him another fiery look. "How do you _think_ it happened, Michael?"

He met her fire impassively, demanding a better explanation. After a moment, Fiona relented. "A ricochet hit the underside of the tank. I put a patch on it, but I was in a hurry. It must have cracked on the way over to Seymour's."

"So what you're saying is, we're out of gas."

"Probably."

"If you're joking…"

"I'm _not_ joking."

The fact that Fiona hadn't jumped at the opportunity to make any number of potential quips about running out of gas late at night along a relatively deserted stretch of road signaled the seriousness of her anger, as well as her embarrassment at not noticing the leak earlier in the drive.

"I've got a gas can and another quick repair kit in the truck," she said. "It should be enough to get home."

They got out together, both of them scanning the highway for tails and unforeseen traps. Once they were satisfied that the sparse traffic wasn't paying them any undue attention, they got to work, Fiona rummaging through her toolbox in the trunk while Michael jacked up the back end of the car.

"Which one of us is going to—"

"I'll do it," Michael interrupted.

Fiona hesitated to hand over the tools, wondering, he knew, if it would mean she'd owe him a favour.

Michael sighed, weary of their lack of trust. "Please, Fi."

With Fiona and otherwise, Michael tried not to say "please" in that particular tone unless he really meant it. His restraint was effective; Fiona immediately handed over a flashlight, a file, a small rag, and the packaged quick repair kit.

Michael dropped to the gravel and shuffled under the car. Using the flashlight, he quickly found the remains of the old patch. After scratching at it with his fingers, he only succeeded in smudging his forearm with grease. Putting the flashlight between his teeth, he switched to attacking the epoxy with the file. That worked better, but as the patch chipped off, he was greeted with a sputter of gasoline; he started as it splashed onto his throat, and then grimaced as it trickled down the back of his neck.

As he cleaned the surface of the tank in preparation for a fresh patch, Michael tensed at the low rumble of a car slowing down. Its headlights pooled around the Saab as it passed, then parked a dozen feet in front. From his place beneath the car, Michael heard rather than saw the car's driver shut off the engine, open the door, and join Fiona at the head of the Saab. Shifting to press his cheek into the gravel, he could just make out a pair very shiny Italian loafers approaching Fiona's wedge-heeled boots.

"Car trouble?" asked the man in the loafers.

Much to Michael's chagrin, Fiona responded in an exaggerated Southern twang.

"There I was pushin' 85 and the damn thing jus' up and dies on me. Dontcha jus' _hate_ when that happens?"

"Any idea what's wrong?"

"Oh a'm just _hopeless_ with mechanical things. All that bumping' and grindin'—who needs it?"

Michael rolled his eyes for no one's benefit but his own.

"I sometimes like to tinker," the man said, playing along with Fiona's obvious innuendo.

"Is that right?" Fiona purred. "You seem like a man's got more important things t'do than lose his hands in a greasy engine."

"I run a nightclub. On South Beach."

"A nightclub!" Fiona practically squealed. "You mus' be livin' the good life."

"Do you live in Miami?"

"Goodness, no—a'm jus' up here on vacation. It's my brother Rufus' car. Shoulda known he wouldn't keep the damn thing tuned. Runs in the family, I guess."

"How long are you staying?" the supposed nightclub owner inquired, inching closer.

Fiona's boots did a coquettish shuffle as she said, "Jus' long enough ta get my fill, y'know?"

Michael's teeth clenched around the flashlight as he pressed the patch into the hole and carefully smoothed it under his fingers. He doubted Fiona was really interested in Mr. Nightclub; her outrageous flirting was intended to make him jealous, and to remind him, as if he needed reminding, of her particularly powerful magnetism. But she was also, he knew, putting on a show simply for the fun out it—because she liked to cause confusion and mayhem in the world around her, and challenge its other occupants to keep up.

"Looks like you've already got some help, at least," Mr. Nightclub observed, apparently noticing Michael's feet for the first time.

"Oh, that's jus' Rufus. Knowin' him, he'll prolly end up doin' more harm than good pokin' around down there."

Fiona knocked on the side of the car. "How's it goin', Rufus?"

"Jus' fine, Idabelle," Michael called back, matching Fiona's accent and wishing he could have seen the look on her face when she heard the name he'd given her. "Be done in a jiffy."

Fiona snorted. "Overestimatin' his own abilities, no doubt."

"Well," said Mr. Nightclub, "there's no reason for both of you to stay out here. If you're heading back into the city, I'd be happy to give you a ride."

"Sweet _and_ handsome," Fiona gushed. "In this day an' age."

Michael finished smoothing out the patch and slapped the tank loudly for good measure as he declared, "That should do it!"

He crawled out from under the car, adding a new layer of dust and dirt to his grease and gas-stained clothes and hands. As he haphazardly dusted himself off, he got his first look at Mr. Nightclub. Michael had to admit he looked the part; Mr. Nightclub had dark, wavy hair, a deep tan, and a solid build accentuated by the tight white T-shirt he wore under the open jacket of his nicely fitting suit.

Michael didn't bother to wipe his hand before extending it. "Hi there, mister—I'm Rufus."

He seized Mr. Nightclub's gingerly offered hand, shaking it vigorously. As he did so, he flashed Fiona a quick wink, ostensibly to show his approval of her handsome suitor, but really to remind her that he was more than capable of causing his own mayhem.

"Uh, nice to meet you," Mr. Nightclub managed, taking back his hand and unhappily examining it.

"I outta thank you," said Michael, "for bein' so chivalrous with my sister here. She hasn't been out much since the trial."

"Trial?" Mr. Nightclub echoed.

Michael clamped a companionable hand on Mr. Nightclub's well-appointed shoulder, tilting their bodies away from Fiona.

Speaking at a not-terribly-conspiratorial volume, Michael explained, "She was engaged to a fella up in Macon. Found out he cheated on 'er, and damned if she didn't try'n end 'im with a Louisville Slugger."

Mr. Nightclub followed Michael's gaze as he glanced back at Fiona. She glared at them through intense, narrowed eyes, looking very much like someone who was capable of killing a man with a baseball bat.

"She's not much t'look at," said Michael, "but it's _all_ muscle."

Mr. Nightclub made a move to extricate himself, but Michael tightened his grip, pressing his face closer as he continued his story.

"Never went to jail—doc said she wasn't right, so they locked 'er up in Milledgeville for ten years, pumped full a drugs and weavin' baskets. She jus' got out last week, and here I am, th'only family in the world that's not disown'd her, jus' tryin' to keep her outta trouble. Thought if I took her down to South Beach, maybe there'd be a new fella to take 'er off my hands."

Mr. Nightclub was now actively trying to get away. When Michael finally released him, he backed up quickly, loafers slipping in the gravel.

"I should, um..." Mr. Nightclub sputtered awkwardly, righting himself and continuing toward his silver Audi. "Since it looks like you've got everything under control here…"

"You have a good night, y'here?" Michael called after him, waving jovially. "Maybe Idabelle'll look you up at the beach!"

The wheels of Mr. Nightclub's Audi actually spun in the gravel as he peeled away. Michael watched the car go with a satisfied smile. Mr. Nightclub's reaction almost made the whole debacle worthwhile; if "Idabelle's" activities scared him that much, Fiona's real activities probably would have triggered an on-the-spot heart attack.

Once the Audi had disappeared over the horizon, Michael turned to address Fiona's incredulous stare.

"Louisville Slugger?" she questioned. "Milledgeville? _Idabelle_?"

"I was trying to paint a picture," Michael offered. "Besides," he added, "you started it."

Fiona had no answer to that. "So is the tank fixed?"

"It should be."

"Then let's go."

Michael's lowered the jack and filled the tank from the gas can while Fiona packed up the other tools. A few minutes later, they were once again on the highway, headed for Coconut Grove.

Fiona wrinkled her nose. "Did you spill gas on yourself?"

"If you mean, did your busted fuel tank spill gas on me—then yes."

"Ug. Don't get it on my upholstery."

"I'll try."

He knew Fiona wasn't serious about the upholstery. She was putting on another show, but for a different reason. Michael wasn't always sure what Fiona wanted from him, but he was hardly blind to his effect on her. He knew that she liked it when he competed in her games. And as much as she liked him cleaned up, she also liked it when he got his hands dirty.

Watching her from the corner of his eye while pretending to study the highway's yellow lines, Michael noticed that, compared to the immediate aftermath of the encounter with Mr. Nightclub, Fiona's expression had taken on a calmer, almost wistful quality. Michael nurtured his own newfound tranquility by recalling the satisfying spectacle of Mr. Nightclub's squealing tires. The abject fear of Fiona's would-be suitor made his own fears seem smaller. Mr. Nightclub had been afraid of Fiona's passion and mayhem, but Michael was only afraid of how much he wanted and needed to be close to those things—to be embraced by Fiona's passion, and share in her mayhem.

Michael was sure that in that moment, it wouldn't take much to get Fiona to pull into some deserted laneway or patch of trees and climb into his lap in the backseat. A hint of a smile or a certain type of glance, and she'd still be clenching her hands around the steering wheel, but thinking about clenching them around something else—if she wasn't thinking about it already. He imagined her face above him, twisted with desire, begging him to be faster, deeper, harder, to fill her and complete her. He'd hold back until she couldn't take it anymore, until she'd almost missed her chance, before giving her what she needed. He'd lose himself to the sight and spectacle of her mangling his name in a desperate moan, losing, at the same time, his memory of the morning after the fire—when Fiona had abandoned him with all the fears and doubts he couldn't manage alone, but were also, paradoxically, aggravated by her closeness.

A moment after conjuring the appealing fantasy of being straddled by Fiona in the backseat, Michael rejected it in a wave of guilt. The heat and weight of her body would make him feel better, but it wouldn't fix anything; tomorrow, Fiona would still be angry, and he'd still be frustrated, tongue-tied, and anxious, needing her and paraylzed by that need.

Michael was both disappointed and grateful when they finally pulled into the driveway of Fiona's bungalow.

As she turned off the engine, Fiona asked, "Are you going to keep it?"

"Hm?"

"Seymour's dagger."

"I don't know," said Michael, peering over his shoulder at the cherry wood boxes in the back seat. "I don't really want evidence of Seymour around the loft, so…"

"I'll keep it for you, if you want."

"Sure…"

Michael had mixed feelings about the daggers sticking around, the sight of the boxes spurring an unexpected pang of emotion.

"So you're going back to the loft?" Fiona asked.

As Michael tried to decide how to answer, Fiona took the initiative. "You might as well come in and get cleaned up, before you go."

Michael found himself nodding in agreement. "Okay."

He followed Fiona into the bungalow, inspecting the décor as he went. Though he'd been to Fiona's house many times, he hadn't spent much time in it, and had never stayed the night. There were practical reasons he didn't like lingering there; blood would almost certainly be shed if Carla or any of her operatives ever tried to enter Fiona's home. There was also the fact that, while Michael considered the barren loft to be something of a neutral zone, Fiona's house was thick with Fiona-ness. Her guns were usually hidden away, in the umbrella stand, under the furniture, and in the fridge. But every visible object nonetheless evoked her. There were fresh flowers in almost every room, vibrant art on each wall, and knickknacks and keepsakes clustered everywhere. Michael had no idea how a woman who moved around so much managed to have so many keepsakes, let alone ones, like her precious snow globes, that were both heavy and fragile; it was yet another of Fiona's many mysteries.

The first time he'd been to Fiona's bungalow, Michael had taken note of the fact that she no longer had the snow globe he'd given her in Dublin. But she did now have the Miami snow globe he'd given her several months ago, before Campbell, and after the Thomas McKee affair; it was prominently displayed on a shelf in the hallway, between Berlin and New York.

"Don't use the towels in the bathroom," Fiona instructed. "I'll bring you an old one."

Michael nodded again as he headed toward the bathroom. At the bathroom sink, he worked the bar soap into a good lather and applied it liberally to his greasy arms and hands. When he looked up to greet his face in the mirror, he saw that his forehead wore a significant black smudge.

As he washed his face and neck, he heard rather than saw Fiona come up behind him. Blinking water out of his eyes as he turned toward her, he missed the proffered towel, fingers closing instead around Fiona's bare forearm.

They both froze, victims of the strange current that so often swirled around them, which had amplified in recent days and spiked throughout the night. Fiona remained very still as Michael's damp thumb and index finger ghosted down the thin-skinned underside of her forearm, studying the shape as he'd studied the hard, smooth edge of the dagger, her blue veins like delicate engraving. When he reached her hand he released her, taking the towel with him as he went. He avoided her eyes as he dried his face and arms.

He was rubbing the towel between his hands as he asked, "Did you honestly think I wouldn't come back?"

"How would I know?"

"Because you know me."

"I used to."

"What does that mean?"

"The man I knew wasn't afraid to fuck me."

Michael bristled at her soft-spoken vulgarity, and then cursed himself for his reaction, knowing it was exactly what she'd intended. She was challenging him again, daring him to describe what they'd done five days ago as something other than fucking.

"Thanks for the towel," he said, careful to avoid both her eyes and her skin as he handed it back.

Fiona accepted the towel wordlessly. Suddenly, Michael wanted nothing more than to retreat to the Charger and the supreme solitude of the loft. But Fiona was still standing in the doorway, making escape awkward, if not impossible.

"Carla was there," he said, "when I got back with breakfast."

"What did she want?"

"The usual."

"I can _handle_ Carla."

"Maybe I don't want you to."

"Someday, you might need me to."

Finally, Michael looked up into Fiona's steady gaze. He was surprised by the dampness of her eyes, and the sad cast of her downturned lips. He'd been just as surprised by her emotions the night of the fire, when her cheeks had wet with tears in sympathy with his own. That night, he'd cried because he'd thought he'd lost her, while Fiona had cried in response to that fear, hurt by his own hurt. For a moment, he let himself think about how easy it would be to lean into her body, remembering the way his rain-damp hands had shook until he'd touched her, and re-started his heart against hers.

"If it comes to that…" he began. "Will you be there?"

"I hope so," she said, sadly but genuinely.

Michael swallowed, then cleared his throat. "I, uh… I should go…"

"Right..." Fiona agreed quietly, stepping aside to let him pass.

For the second time that day, Michael had to remind himself not to run while he retreated, taking measured, deliberate strides as he made his way back down Fiona's hallway, past the paintings, the flowers, the snow globes, and the H&K hidden in the umbrella stand.

He was almost at the front door when Fiona's voice stopped him.

"Michael."

He turned halfway, and saw her standing in the hallway; she was still holding the towel, which was now dangling limply from her left hand.

"Yeah, Fi."

"I don't want to lose you, either."

It took a lifetime of training for him to keep his voice steady as he asked, "Call you tomorrow?"

"I'll be around," Fiona replied, with equally determined nonchalance.

During Michael's drive to the loft, the rain that had been threatening since the afternoon finally started to fall, landing in loud, heavy drops on the windshield of the Charger. It was different from the rain that had fallen on the night of the fire; then, the sky had unleashed a torrent of sharp, thin drops that had seemed destined to continue forever, but miraculously cleared during the night.

Michael had considered the possibility that the messages he'd left for Fiona on the night of the fire would port onto her new phone. Yet he hadn't dwelled on it, in part because he'd been trying to forget. In the wake of Fiona's words in the hallway, forgetting was impossible. Michael precisely remembered his final message to Fiona's burned-out phone, how he'd said, in a voice thick with emotion: _"Fi, please pick up—please. I can't lose you… Not again…"_

Watching the street through the irregular rain and steady rhythm of the windshield wipers, Michael couldn't pinpoint what had changed, even as he was sure that everything had changed. For five days, he'd wanted to be as certain as he'd been on the night of the fire, when nothing had mattered in the entire world save the fact that Fiona was alive and warm inside his arms. Now, even though he remained uncertain about the road ahead, he was at least sure of one thing: there could be no turning back, even if he'd wanted to.

He also knew, as surely as Fiona now did, that he didn't want to turn back.

**~END~** (for now...)


	3. Question and Answer

**Set during and after the conclusion of "Question and Answer," Season 3, Episode 2**

* * *

Fiona watched Michael slowly slide the forkful of chocolate birthday cake into his mouth. As he chewed, he looked across the table at his mother to ask, warily, "Did you make this?"

"Do you like it…?" Madeline asked, displaying an equally wary smile. "I wanted it to be special, so I cooked."

Finally, Michael swallowed.

"It's good," he assured her, smiling tightly as he dutifully scooped up another forkful.

As Michael ate his cake, Sam clanged a case of beer onto the brightly coloured tablecloth; one of the six bottles was missing, and another was decorated with a stick-on red bow.

"Happy birthday, Mike."

"Beer," Michael observed flatly. "A _five_-pack. Thanks."

"Yeah. It's imported. It's supposed to be brewed by some monks in Belgium… It's uh, it's really good … Or, you know, so I heard…"

"Would you like some?" Michael asked.

"Yeah—thanks!" Sam enthused, withdrawing the bottle with the red bow. "It's kinda pricey, but I figured, only the best for you, Mike."

Madeline turned deliberately to Michael's best friend and asked, "Would you like a bottle opener, Sam?"

"Oh, no thanks," Sam replied, fishing his key chain out of his pocket. "I've got one. Never leave home without it."

"_Sam_," Madeline insisted. "You need a bottle opener. Why don't I show you where it is?"

"Uh, okay, sure…"

A chastised Sam followed Madeline into the kitchen, leaving Fiona alone with Michael. As far as Fiona was aware, Michael didn't usually celebrate his birthday. Before that morning, when Michael had called to tell her they were expected at his mother's house that evening for a birthday dinner, Fiona hadn't actually known his birthdate. Her ignorance on the subject hadn't especially bothered her. Fiona knew Michael as well and as intimately as she'd ever known anyone, yet that intimacy had never been rooted in facts or dates, most of which were either literally classified or practically so, given Michael's typical reluctance to discuss his past. Fiona was nearly as secretive; Michael knew her birthday not because she'd ever told him, but because he'd read it in a CIA dossier while identifying her as a potential asset.

Madeline's new enthusiasm for celebrating Michael's birthday was likely connected to recent events. Michael had come very close to dying during the showdown with Carla two weeks before. He'd had another close call a few days later, when he'd escaped Harlan's clutches by sawing bloody chucks of skin off his own wrists, jumping blindly out a third-story window, then out-swimming a gas fire. Fiona wasn't sure how many details Madeline knew about either incident, but she certainly knew enough to be concerned about the present and future welfare of her oldest son. During the showdown with Carla, it had taken Sam exploding Madeline's sunroom to save her from the armed gunmen who'd surrounded her home; Madeline had also seen and helped bandage Michael's wrists after the fight with Harlan. Now, the wounds on Michael's wrists had mostly healed, but had been replaced with new injuries; Michael currently sported a two-inch cut on his left cheek below his permanent scar and a darkening bruise around his right eye, a souvenir from one of the many punches both Sam and Santora had rained upon his flesh during his recent impersonation of an addict-informer.

Fiona wasn't unduly concerned about Michael's cuts and bruises. She'd seen worse, and the pain had been worth it; Patricia and Howard's kidnapped son was home safe, and Santora was where he should be—gone.

Yet Fiona had been uncharacteristically worried when she'd watched Michael disappear into a helicopter with Management, from which he'd later jumped into the ocean five miles off the coast of Miami Beach. She was also anxious about the evolution of his broader situation. After finally getting a chance to cut down Carla with her sniper rifle, Fiona had let herself hope things might become simpler—that Michael might actually be free of the ongoing drama of his burn notice. Since Carla's presumed demise and Michael's ultimate rejection of her organization, some things had changed; Michael was no longer an invisible person, resulting in a brief stint in jail and his current problems with Detective Paxson. Michael's motivations, however, seemed relatively unchanged. If anything, the gunmen who'd surrounded Madeline's house and the revelation that Carla had murdered Victor's family only bolstered his determination to resume his old job. Fiona knew what his argument would be—that he needed the CIA for protection, for himself, and everyone close to him, including her. Fiona would never stop hating that excuse. To her mind, the showdown with Carla should have proven her ability to protect both herself and Michael, if he'd only let her

Privately, Fiona admitted that Michael did have some justification for worrying about protecting Madeline and Nate. Yet she also suspected he was ultimately more interested in protecting himself. Michael had often used the burn notice to protect himself from her; it was always because of the burn notice that they couldn't sleep together on any given night or be in a relationship on any given day. Before the burn notice, the excuse had been the CIA; and if it wasn't the CIA, it would probably be something else. Fiona's birthday present was intended to remind Michael of the futility of his efforts to rebuff her—and of her intention to continue testing his defenses.

Once Sam and Madeline had fully disappeared around the corner into the kitchen, Fiona retrieved a large, long box from the floor next to her seat. She hadn't had much time to plan, but shopping was always easy at her favourite vintage weapons depot.

Michael accepted the box with another wary look, maintaining intermittent eye contact as he untied the blue silk ribbon and very carefully lifted the lid. Fiona smiled with satisfaction at Michael's obvious relief when the box didn't explode; despite all their secrets, he did know her well.

He lifted her gift out of the box and examined it quizzically, steel scraping on steel as he pulled the blade halfway out of its sheath.

"It's a bayonet," he observed.

"Used during the first World War for close fighting," she confirmed.

"Thanks…?"

"Someone once told me that caring for you is like trench warfare," Fiona explained. She leaned in close, ticking his ear with her breath, to add, "So I thought you should arm yourself."

Michael remained very still as she planted a delicate kiss above the bruise on his cheek. As she withdrew, he looked alluringly flustered. He'd just opened his mouth to either respond or do something else when Sam's head and shoulders ducked back into the room.

"C'mon Mikey. We're on dish duty."

Michael hesitated, glancing at Sam before affixing Fiona with a long, uncertain look. Finally, he nodded, and pushed his chair away from the table.

"Sure, Sam. I'm right behind you."

While Michael and Sam tackled the dishes, Fiona was assigned to entertaining Madeline. Within minutes, she found herself seated next to the older woman on the living room's lumpy sofa, pinned under a heavy photo album that Madeline had spread out across both their knees. Apparently, Michael's several recent close calls had spurred a wave of nostalgia as well as sentiment.

Madeline provided a steady stream of commentary as she flipped through the album's many pages. "That's from the time we went camping… Needless to say, we never did _that_ again… Oh, and that's Michael in the school play. He was ten. He didn't have any _lines_, but…"

Fiona nodded and smiled in the appropriate places, but wasn't terribly interested in the photographs. Although Michael was one of her favourite hobbies, he was one of her least favourite puzzles. Trying to figure him out was usually more frustrating than rewarding, and digging into his past tended to produce more questions than answers. Madeline's collection of photographs was a case in point. There were huge gaps in Madeline's collection; she seemed to have hundreds of photographs from Michael's childhood, but very few photos from his teenage years, and almost none from his 20s or 30s.

Madeline turned another page, and Fiona found herself looking down at a spread of photographs of Michael playing baseball. In each photo, he was wearing a belted, sky blue uniform with tall, dust-spattered white socks; the outfit accentuated his pubescent gangly-ness, his skinny arms and legs seeming entirely too long for his diminutive body. Most of the photos were taken during games; many were blurred by movement, and some had a chain-link fence in the foreground. The only photo that was clearly posed was also the one in which Michael looked the most unhappy; in it, Michael was slouching against a baseball bat, hat pulled down over his forehead as he scowled at the camera.

"Michael was the pitcher," Madeline explained. "His coach said he was one of the best he'd ever seen at his age. They probably would have won it all that year if Michael hadn't been suspended for the championship game."

Fiona contributed the expected prompt. "What happened?"

"One of the other team's players tripped Michael's friend Andre on his way to third—cost them the inning and scraped up Andre's face pretty bad. The next time that kid came up to bat, Michael hit him with a fastball, nearly broke his damn shin. So they suspended him."

"That's not what happened," Michael's voice protested from the kitchen.

"Oh, you were too young to remember," Madeline scoffed.

Michael's frowning visage appeared in the kitchen doorway; he had a wet stain on his baby blue polo shirt, and a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. "I was twelve."

"Exactly," Madeline agreed.

Michael's frown deepened as he disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Don't mind him," Madeline assured Fiona, exhaling a puff of smoke as she tapped her cigarette in the lime and gold ash tray on the kidney shaped coffee table. "He doesn't remember."

"I can _hear_ you," Michael protested again.

Madeline ignored him.

"Oh look—here are the pictures from our trip to Disney World!"

Fiona's mind wandered as she viewed sun-bleached photographs of a generally frowning Michael and a very young, very happy Nate standing in front of the Haunted Mansion and the Country Bear Jamboree. She'd almost completely disengaged by the time the baby pictures came out. There was something disturbing about seeing Michael as a baby—so small, innocent, and helpless. Fiona disliked the idea of Michael being any of those things. Protecting him was one thing; mothering him was quite another.

She told Madeline that she had to go to the washroom, but went instead to the kitchen to find Michael and Sam.

They were almost finished with the dishes, Michael washing and Sam drying. Both men turned to look at her as she entered the room, though Fiona only had eyes for Michael. Sam, still smarting from Madeline's earlier prompting, got the message quickly.

"Uh, why don't I go keep Maddie company, while you guys finish up…?"

Sam tossed the dish towel to Fiona and snagged a fresh beer before heading for the living room to join Madeline. His voice was exaggeratedly enthusiastic as he declared, "Did I hear you say something about Disney World?"

Still standing over the sink, Michael watched Sam go, then returned his gaze to Fiona.

"What was that all about?"

"He feels guilty," Fiona replied. "About the sunroom."

She jostled Michael's hip as she reached around his body for a dry dish towel. "Here—I'll help you."

They finished the dishes silently and slower than they needed to. Fiona loved working shoulder-to-shoulder with Michael, and knew that he loved it, too. Doing dishes couldn't live up to the thrill of assembling home-made explosives, but it still featured one of the most important elements of any other time they worked together, which was the promise of closeness with the protection of distance. Since they'd been reunited in Miami, Michael rarely lingered in her bed, and she rarely lingered in his. But when they were working together, they had an excuse to remain for hours in each other's orbit, teased and comforted by their familiar chemistry. Fiona always wanted more—wanted work to be a form of foreplay, rather than a substitute for the actual exchange of wetness and warmth. But that didn't make her cherish the work any less.

Fiona studied Michael surreptitiously as they worked, mulling the unusual domesticity of the scene. Watching Michael's hands plunge in and out of the soapy water, she had a sudden image of a different life. Nine-to-five jobs that didn't involve shooting or being shot at. A mortgage. A dog. Children…

When she was younger, Fiona had assumed she'd have children. But it had always been a distant, future goal; she'd told herself she'd think about children when she found the right place, and the right man, and when she finally decided who she wanted to be, and what she wanted to do. Now, she was forty years old, and hadn't figured out any of those things. She was still moving from one dangerous odd job to the next, and spending far too much time in the company of entirely the wrong man. And while she liked Miami well enough, she remained there largely because that same wrong man currently lived there, and she loved him.

By the time they finished the dishes, Fiona was happy for a reprieve from her unexpectedly melancholy thoughts.

"So," she began brightly, hanging the damp dish towel on a hook above the counter. "This has been quite a day."

"Compared to what?" Michael asked, drying his hands as the soapy water gurgled down the drain.

"Compared to days when I haven't had to pour over a dozen photos of your tiny little—"

"_Please _don't finish that sentence."

"—feet. Really, Michael—you need to get your mind out of the gutter."

Michael smirked as he dropped his backside against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. His flustered look from the dinner table was long gone, but the tension of that moment hung between them, unresolved.

"Do you think Patricia and Howard will make it work?" she asked.

"I think they'll try. For a while."

"Glass half empty, huh?"

"Some people might call it being realistic."

"Other people think realism can be lonely."

Michael's looked away, leaving Fiona to regret her words. She wasn't in the mood to dredge up all their old and ongoing conflicts. But those conflicts seemed to emerge anyway, whether she wanted them to or not.

After a moment, she asked, "Do you want to leave?"

"What do you think?"

"I think Madeline's got two more albums of baby pictures."

"Then I think we owe Sam an extraction."

Fiona followed Michael into the living room, where Sam and Madeline were thick as thieves amid a tall stack of photo albums.

"Aw, would you look at that," Sam enthused. "He's got a little rubber ducky and everything..."

"I _know_," Madeline cooed. "And just look at his little feet!"

Fiona shrugged at Michael's baffled expression, then urged him with her eyes to break up the scene.

"So, uh… I think we're gonna head out…"

Sam and Madeline looked up quickly at the sound of Michael's voice, as though noticing his presence for the first time.

"Gee, are you sure, Mike?" Sam questioned, voice and expression infused with credible disappointment. "I mean, we're just gettin' started here. Your mom's got a great eye."

Madeline practically beamed as she tapped the ash off her Marlborough. "_Thank you_, Sam."

Michael and Fiona exchanged another look, neither of them sure if Sam was being honest, or if he was just a better actor than they'd ever given him credit for.

"_Anyway_," Michael began again. "It has been a long day, so…"

Madeline shoved the album onto the coffee table and got to her feet. "I expect to see at least one of you back here tomorrow to help Sam with the sunroom."

"I should be able to stop by," Michael promised.

"You'd better," Madeline warned. "You'd also better get some _sleep_. You look terrible—like you sleepwalked into a door."

Madeline delivered the line gruffly, but after she'd said it, her face bore a strange flicker of indecision, eyes softening as her frown twitched. This was followed by a rather awkward pause, in which Fiona was sure that Madeline wanted to hug or touch her son, but couldn't figure out a way to do it. Michael did nothing to resolve his mother's dilemma; in fact, his cool detachment seemed to aggravate it.

Fiona shot a glance in Sam's direction to see if he'd noticed the odd moment, but Sam was looking elsewhere, perhaps intentionally.

"You ready, Fi?" Michael asked.

"Yes," Fiona confirmed, shaking herself out of her reverie. She smiled warmly as she did what neither Michael nor his mother had been willing or able to do, stepping forward to initiate a hug. "Thank you, Madeline, for a lovely meal."

Madeline returned the gesture somewhat stiffly, cigarette still pinned between her fingers as she folded her arm around Fiona's back.

"You're welcome, honey," the older woman replied. "Thanks for coming."

Soon, Fiona was behind the wheel of her Saab with Michael sitting next to her, gazing out the passenger's side window. The bayonet didn't fit in the trunk, so it was lying between their seats, pointed end facing the dash. Sam had stayed behind; he'd been living in Madeline's guest room since the showdown with Carla, a situation which may have accounted for his heightened conciliatoriness where Michael's mother was concerned.

"You're awfully quiet," Fiona observed as they merged onto the highway.

"Sorry," Michael offered, shaking his head to clear it as he pulled his attention away from the window. "I'm just tired. And trying to run through all the stuff I need to get together before Paxson stops by tomorrow."

"What is it with you and these femme fatale types?"

"No comment."

"_I _think she likes you."

"She really doesn't."

"Some girls like to play hard to get… Some boys do the same."

Michael met her eyes in the rear view mirror.

"Are we still talking about Paxson?"

Fiona answered with a mysterious smile.

As Michael's gaze drifted back toward the streaming lights in the window, she suggested, "You could always hide out at my place."

She didn't make the offer lightly. As a rule, Fiona tried to be careful about inviting Michael into her home. She'd been burned once by sharing her space with him, when he'd moved into her Dublin flat and then left in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye. It wasn't a mistake she was about to make again; in Miami, she preferred to invade Michael's space.

She felt Michael studying her profile, likely pondering the rarity of the invitation.

"I'm sure Paxson knows where you live too, Fi."

"It's my new place," she explained. "I've only been there for a week, and it's not under my name."

"Wait—you moved?"

"After Carla, I thought a change might be wise."

"And you didn't tell me?"

Fiona was surprised by the note of genuine hurt in his voice.

"You were in jail at the time," she defended.

"Just for a couple of days."

"_Three_ days. During which you didn't call."

"You didn't visit," he countered.

"Did you want me to?"

Michael looked away, not willing to commit to an answer.

"So how was it?" she asked.

"What?"

"Jail."

"Oh, the usual…" he replied, still seemingly preoccupied by the scenery. "Lousy food, ugly clothes, lots of rules about eye contact…"

"No girls…" Fiona chipped in.

"It was only three days, Fi."

"Still."

When their eyes met again across the seats, Michael's expression had subtly changed; there was a gleam in his eye that hadn't been there before, as he began to succumb to her repeated advances.

Fiona decided it was as good a time as any to press her advantage. "So are you coming over, or not?"

"Where's your new place?"

"Still in Coconut Grove, but on the West side."

"You're sure it's safe?"

Fiona flashed him a brief, suggestive smile. "Mostly..."

"Paxson might get suspicious if I'm not at the loft. She'll step up her surveillance—"

"Michael." She looked at him seriously for a moment, drawing in the blue eyes that still gleamed above his uncertain lips. "It's just one night."

Fiona returned her attention to the road, but continued to follow Michael in the mirror and the corner of her eye, hoping he understood. If he agreed to spend the night, there would be no obligations, and no recriminations. They had the next day and the rest of their lives to argue and be torn apart. For tonight, she needed him, and nothing else mattered. Almost losing him always did that to her—always made her want to be grateful for what they did have, however imperfect.

Michael gave a barely perceptible nod. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Fiona released a slow breath, and let herself start to fantasize about the night ahead. The last time they'd been together had been quick and desperate, and hadn't involved a bed. It had been far too long since she'd had Michael all to herself for an entire night in an air conditioned room with a firm mattress and high quality linens, and she didn't intend to squander it.

The remainder of the drive was quiet, and there were no signs of surveillance when they pulled into the garage of Fiona's new bungalow.

"C'mon," she urged, as the automatic door closed behind them. "I'll give you the grand tour."

In the small anteroom between the garage and the kitchen, she made Michael remove his shoes, while keeping her own; Fiona didn't like to surrender her extra height until she absolutely had to, especially around Michael.

In the kitchen, Michael's eyes swept over the dark granite countertops and the shiny, dove grey cupboards.

"It's…" he trailed off as he stepped into the living room. "… not unpacked," he finished, coming to a halt as he confronted the stacks of boxes filling most of the room.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Fiona promised, stepping around him to lead the way through the maze of boxes into the hallway beyond. "There's most of a couch, and the bedroom is in good shape…"

She paused at the foot of the open bedroom door, standing very close to Michael in the narrow hallway, near enough to feel the gravity of his heat and smell the sweat of the day on his skin. Michael looked into the room and then back at her before dropping his eyes above a small, close-lipped smile; it was a nearly perfect rendition of the chaste, false nervousness that was his usual version of flirting. Fiona's pulse beat faster at the nearness of her victory; for once, it seemed as though things were going to be relatively easily.

"I never properly thanked you," he said.

"For what?"

"Carla."

"Please—I should be thanking you for the opportunity."

"I assume you think she liked me, too."

"No, Carla hated you. You really can't read women at all, can you?"

Michael shifted his weight, and for the briefest moment, she thought he might decline her challenge. But instead, he angled his hip toward hers, jeans brushing the short, tight hem of her pale yellow dress.

In a low voice, he suggested, "Maybe you could recommend a tutor."

"It'll cost you."

"Too bad I'm broke."

"Good thing you have other assets."

Fiona tilted her face up, and Michael met her halfway for a gentle, teasing kiss. He was clearly willing but, as usual, wanted her to make up his mind for him—to take control, and force his surrender. Fiona conceded by knocking him back into the wall with her hips. He fell easily, and finally slipped his hands around her lower back to pull her tight against his body.

Fiona poured herself gratefully into his lean muscles, gripping his neck as she deepened the kiss, her bare thigh sliding up between his legs. Michael tugged on her bottom lip before dropping his head against the wall, inviting her to suck his neck. She was running her hands down the front of his body, lips wet on his hot skin, when he abruptly tensed, and then went very still. Fiona pulled back to watch a faraway but strangely intense expression overtake his suddenly pale face.

"Are you—"

"Bathroom," he interrupted.

"There's an ensuite—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Michael had spun out of her grip and bounded toward the door to the ensuite bath. Fiona took a moment to blink back her surprise, then followed him. She was far enough behind that she heard rather than saw him reject his birthday dinner into the toilet.

Cautiously, she stepped around the open bathroom door and onto the sparkling white tiles. She found Michael holding the toilet bowl with both hands, his denim-clad legs folded at awkward angles. A shudder shot up his back a moment before he heaved again, expelling a pinkish substance that splashed as it joined the rest of his stomach contents in the toilet water. Afterwards, he fell back on his haunches and wiped a shaky hand across his mouth, momentarily stupefied by his body's sudden betrayal.

"That's one way to make a girl feel wanted…" Fiona quipped.

"Sorry, I—"

Michael's attempted apology ended abruptly as his body wrenched again, compelling another scrambling, nearly unsuccessful dive for the toilet bowl. Fiona scrunched her nose as she watched him cough up several uneven spatters of yellowy liquid, muscles tensing unpredictably around his dramatically bent spine. When his convulsions eventually stilled, he kicked himself backwards to lean against the tiled wall opposite the toilet, grimacing as he uttered a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a groan.

Fiona remained in the doorway until was sure the immediate danger had passed. Then she went to the toilet and flushed it, trying, but failing, to resist the morbid urge to watch the multi-coloured contents of Michael's stomach swirl down the drain.

As the vomit-inducing stench of vomit gradually dissipated, Fiona squatted next to Michael, and touched his pale cheek with the back of her hand. The warmth she'd thought was passion was actually a mild fever.

"Have you felt like this all night?" she asked.

Michael shook his head, glazed eyes staring into the space between his raised knees. "I was fine before dinner."

"You couldn't be poisoned, could you?"

Michael shook his head again. "No one could've gotten close this afternoon. And if it was slow-acting, there would've been symptoms before now."

"The flu…?"

"Maybe."

"Or maybe…" she began, then trailed off.

"What?"

"You don't think… Madeline's dinner…"

When Michael looked up at her, even his eyes seemed pale.

"You ate the same things I did," he observed.

"Not the birthday cake."

"Did Sam—"

"Never touched it."

"You're saying that out of all of us, _I'm_ the only one who trusted my mom's baking?"

"It does sound implausible. But then, so does getting food poisoning from a birthday cake."

"With my mom, anything's possible," Michael assured her, face wrinkling as he fought back another tremor.

"Do you want some water?"

"In a bit. I just… need a minute."

Fiona unbuckled and kicked off her platform wedges, then joined him on the bathroom floor, stretching her legs next to his. The tiles were cool against her thighs and back, much cooler than Michael's skin, whose heat continued to pulse against the gentle press of her shoulder. After a while, Michael closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. Fiona cast a mournful glance at his exposed throat; it seemed like a lifetime ago that she'd been caressing its thin skin with her wet lips.

Fiona broke the silence to ask, "You don't want a doctor, do you?"

"Ask me again when I start coughing up blood."

"She's trying, you know—Madeline."

"That's never been her problem," Michael countered.

Under the circumstances, Fiona had to agree.

"So what did happen?" she asked.

"When?"

"With the baseball thing."

Eyes still closed, Michael took a deep breath, and released it. "The first part was true. I did hit another kid with a pitch after he tripped Andre. But the kid was fine. I weighed about a hundred pounds at the time, so I couldn't have broken his shin from sixty feet away, even if I'd wanted to."

"So you didn't get suspended?"

"I did, but not for that."

Fiona knew she should leave it alone. She was sensitive to the painfulness of Michael's past, as only someone with their own painful past can be. Yet his present incapacitation proved an irresistible temptation; if there was ever a time to steal a piece of the puzzle, it was now.

"Then why?"

Michael ever-so-slightly readjusted his weight, then continued. "That night, things were... Anyway, I snuck out, stole a neighbour kid's bicycle, rode it to the nearest payphone, and called the cops—the only time I ever called. When the cops showed up, my dad was gone, and my mom wouldn't tell them anything—she said she fell, said it was an accident, all the usual excuses. But I guess the neighbours also called the cops, and they wrote me up for stealing the bike. _That's_ what got me kicked out of the championship game."

Fiona's blood boiled as her skin went cold, furious and heartsick all at once. "They wrote you up? A twelve-year-old kid?"

"I'd already had a few other run-ins at that point. My reputation may have preceded me."

In the silence that followed, Fiona grew increasingly sure she should say or do something reassuring. But she'd never been especially good at comfort. Luckily, Michael seldom required it. Fiona had known other men who seemed to need nearly constant ego stroking—steady streams of praise about their skills, their looks, or the size of their cock. Michael had never been like that. That he often needed to be goaded into both sex and non-naked activities had nothing do to with a lack of confidence; Michael's skills were second-to-none, and he knew it.

She was additionally paralyzed by two recent images: Madeline's hesitation to hug her son, and the photograph of that son at twelve, scowling under his blue baseball cap. Suddenly, Fiona wished she'd paid more attention to the other photographs, and even Madeline's unreliable commentary. All of the dates and facts that hadn't bothered her now loomed over the discomfiting quiet; somehow, finding a new piece of the puzzle that was Michael Westen had made him seem newly, frighteningly incomplete. She thought about moving her hand to his lower back, or his cheek, or the back of his neck; those parts of him, at least, she did know well. But she couldn't, unsure if trying to touch him would draw him closer or push him away.

Finally, she said, "There are lots of reasons people don't leave."

"I know, I know…"

"And not every family is like that."

She wasn't sure why she said it; her own family was large, but it was hardly what most people would consider ideal.

"A lot are," he said. "One way or another."

"No wonder you don't want kids…"

"You don't either… Do you?"

When Michael opened his eyes, Fiona was surprised by the intensity of his gaze. She'd thought her own statement on the subject had been a throwaway line; that Michael didn't want children was so obvious and well-established, it was barely worth mentioning. Michael's reaction, though, made her realize the unintended bitterness of her own words.

Fiona pursed her lips, refusing her eyes' compulsion to wander. "I used to think I did."

"And now?"

"I don't know," she replied honestly.

She struggled to read Michael's face, his emotions clouded by fever and nausea.

His voice was un-helpfully toneless as he said, "I'll take that glass of water, now."

Fiona ground her teeth at the obvious evasion, but knew she lacked the leverage to deny him. Wordlessly, she pushed herself to her feet, and headed for the kitchen.

She ran the water until it got cold, dipping her hands in and out of the stream as she tried to process the strange turn the night had taken. She was nagged by guilt about pressing Michael to recall the baseball story, but felt worse about where the conversation had gone after that, unable to shake her sudden uneasiness about an issue she'd thought had been settled long ago.

By the time she returned to the bathroom with the glass of water, Michael had gotten to his feet; he was standing next to the sink, leaning heavily against the white ceramic counter.

"Here," she said, extending the glass.

Michael lifted his right hand from the sink to accept it. "Thanks."

She stepped back into the door jam as Michael rinsed his mouth and spit into the sink, then took several cautious sips. He turned halfway to face her as he set the glass down, left hand still gripping the sink.

"I was thinking…" he began. "I'm no good to you like this, and if I'm sick, you probably don't want to catch it, so…"

Fiona stared at him, genuinely confused. Her eyes narrowed as the truth dawned. "Wait… are you _leaving_?"

"I can bring your car back tomorrow."

Her temper flared at his calm justifications. "How can you drive when you can barely _stand_?"

"I'll be fine. Really."

His chalk-white cheek twitched into a decidedly unsettling version of what was meant to be a reassuring smile. If she'd been any less angry, Fiona might have laughed.

"I'm not giving you my keys," she said.

"Fi…"

"I'll make you a deal—if you can take them from me, I'll believe you're fit to drive."

Michael tightened his jaw, released the sink, and straightened his back. In response, Fiona set her own jaw, and squared her stance. As she looked up into Michael's full height, she wondered, for a moment, if she'd made a mistake. Where Madeline Westen was capable of impossible feats of food poisoning, her son was capable of many seemingly impossible things, like conquering physical obstacles that would overwhelm a normal man.

But it was only a moment; before Fiona's eyes, Michael's self-possession deteriorated rapidly, the effort to stay upright turning his face an even more unhealthy shade of white.

"Not feeling well?" she taunted, arching an eyebrow.

Michael's cloudy eyes darted sideways.

"Because if you throw up _anywhere_ but in that toilet," Fiona continued, "I _will_ kill you."

Michael stumbled backwards and collapsed again around the toilet bowl, heaving up two quick bursts of foul yellow bile.

Looking down at Michael's crumpled body, Fiona folded her arms, and frowned. "Fine, huh?"

Michael groaned pitifully as he pushed himself away from the toilet and resumed his previous position on the floor against the wall, left hand holding his rebellious stomach as though a firm grip might steady it. His expression was just as woeful; he looked disoriented and lost, stung by the treachery of his unruly body.

Fiona furrowed her brow, shifted her weight, and fought to remain angry. She told herself he deserved it—that the lonely pain and indignity of his current state was fitting punishment for his determination to be alone. She was done flushing his vomit and mopping up his blood just so he could survive long enough to leave her. He wasn't worth it, and never would be.

But when she closed her eyes, she saw the innocent smile of a boy who may never have smiled again without Michael's sacrifice of blood, and near sacrifice of so much more. She also saw the glint of hope in the eyes of a mother who'd baked her first birthday cake in decades, and the brave determination of her son to thank her for it, in actions, if not words or gestures.

In the end, Fiona lost the battle. With a heavy sigh, she closed the distance between them, sliding down the wall to land on the floor next to the unusually helpless man who she knew, deep down, would always own the best part of her heart. She answered Michael's questioning look by looping her right arm around his shoulders, coaxing him close. Michael seemed very small as he leaned gratefully into her body, dropping his head into the crook of her neck. Fiona reached her other arm around the front of their bodies, stoking Michael's dark hair with her fingers as she brushed her lips against his too-warm forehead.

Softly, she said, "I've always known you didn't want kids."

"You might change your mind."

"Then it'll be my fault, not yours."

Michael rubbed his cheek against her neck, mindful to avoid touching her with his mouth, and wary of letting his hands leave his own body.

Fiona lost track of time as they continued to huddle on the floor of her new bathroom, hypnotized by the rhythm of her fingers in Michael's hair and the gradual calming of his clammy body against hers.

It was Michael who finally broke the silence. "I know it goes without saying, but… this is _not_ how I wanted to spend the night."

Despite everything, Fiona's skin tingled, remembering her own plans and Michael's too-brief participation. "How did you want to spend it?"

"You know how."

"Tell me anyway."

He swallowed, and said, "I wanted to spend it with you."

Fiona wasn't sure what she'd been expecting Michael to say. She certainly hadn't been expecting him to give her what she wanted—which was him describing, in exhaustive detail, all the things he might have done to her body over the course of the night. But she also hadn't expected such simple honestly.

Fiona had to force back the tightness in her own throat before she could state the obvious. "And here I am."

More time passed, until she was able to say, in a stronger voice, "Anyway, it could be worse."

"How?"

"We could be getting arrested on illegal weapons charges… or looking at _Nate's_ baby pictures…"

She felt Michael's tired snort of amusement against her neck.

"Or, Madeline's cooking could be leaving your body through a whole other orifice…"

Michael leaned back, wincing. "You _had_ to go there—really?"

Fiona met his look with crooked, close-lipped smile. "What can I say? I'm a glass half full kind of girl."

"I hope you don't live to regret that optimism…"

Fiona's face fell. "Are you—"

"I'm _kidding_. Jeez Fi—get your mind out of the gutter."

Michael mounted an encouragingly spirited protest to the elbow she aimed at his ribs.

"Seems like you're feeling better," she observed.

"Maybe we could go to bed…" Michael suggested, his eyes rolling toward the door.

"Do you promise not to vomit on my goose down duvet?"

"I'll try…?"

"I guess that'll have to do. C'mon."

Michael accepted her hands as he struggled to his feet, then followed her back to the bedroom. He didn't really need her help to undress, but she helped him anyway, running a hand up his back as he pulled his shirt over his head and smoothing her hands around his waist to pop open his jeans. Her touch was tender, rather than sensual, infused with care, rather than passion. Michael wasn't in any condition to properly respond to anything else, though he seemed foolishly eager to try; as she peeled back the sheets on the bed, he brushed his mostly-naked skin against her still-clothed body, one cautious hand tickling her thigh.

"Later," she promised.

Mollified by her promise, Michael crawled slowly and carefully into the bed. Fiona pulled the blankets up over his bare shoulders as he sank his cheek into the large, luxurious pillow.

"This is… a really nice bed," he mumbled, eyes already closed.

"I know," Fiona agreed, leaning over him to place a light kiss on his cheek; it was the same spot she'd kissed earlier, at Madeline's dining room table. "I'll be back in a minute."

As she started toward the bathroom, Michael's voice stopped her. "And Fi?"

"Yes, Michael."

"Don't tell my mom about... you know..."

"Don't worry—I won't."

In the bathroom, Fiona flushed the rest of Michael's vomit down the toilet before commencing her nighttime routine. As she smoothed her night cream into her skin, she studied the lines around her eyes. She'd always been proud of her looks, but she wasn't twenty-five anymore; she was living in the future she'd once viewed as impossibly distant.

When she returned to the bedroom, Michael was fast asleep, lips loosely parted against the white pillow. Pausing to watch him, Fiona had another flash of the life they might have led. In that life, such quiet moments wouldn't be a strange exception—they'd be normal. The fact that Fiona's first impulse had been to blame Michael's sickness on the FSB rather than bad food or the flu said a lot about the state of their lives.

But to want a normal life was to want a different life. And Fiona didn't want that, not really. Her life wasn't perfect, but it was the best she had.

Fiona stripped off her dress and joined Michael between the sheets. Sometime later, she fell asleep with her shoulder blades touching his, their bodies like puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit, but wanted to.

**~END~** (for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** I know the past couple of chapters have been a bit of a tease… I'll actually let them get together in the next one, I promise ;)


	4. Enemies Closer

**Set just before the ending of "Enemies Closer," Season 3, Episode 13** **(after the scene at Madeline's house where Michael says goodbye to Nate and Ruth, but before the final scene with Gilroy)**

* * *

"Hi Fi—it's me. Give me a call when you get this. I uh, I think we should talk."

Michael frowned at his phone as he tossed it into the white passenger's seat of the Charger, and started the engine. As he drove, he continued to eye the phone, an uncharacteristically anxious gesture reflecting an especially anxious week. Michael knew he'd removed the false sim card Larry had used to block his calls to his friends and family and make him feel alone—as alone as he'd been so many years ago in several different war zones, working side-by-side and often sleeping back-to-back with a man he'd recognized too late as a monster. And yet, he remained suspicious. Larry's ability to so dramatically manipulate him with something so simple had badly shaken him. His ability to fall victim to one of the oldest tricks in the book signaled Larry's continued hold over him, as well as other, even more discomfiting truths—like the fact that he didn't completely trust his friends, or believe they completely trusted him.

Since realizing Larry's game, Michael had done what he could to bolster that trust. Earlier that day, he'd apologized to Sam and made a very difficult confession to Fiona. With Sam looking on, he'd told Fiona that even though there was a part of him that was like Larry, it got smaller the longer he worked with her. That confession had earned him a temporary reprieve from Fiona's cold shoulder, but he doubted it would be enough to put the issue behind them for good. The hour he'd spent helping Fiona make a fake bomb to frame Carlos and get rid of Larry had been civil, but efficient; there'd been none of the usual playful smiles and glances, and very little conversation. Eyes wandering for the umpteenth time toward his silent phone, Michael knew he wasn't just worried about Fiona's ability to call him back; he was also worried about was whether she'd want to.

Michael wasn't sure what Larry had told Fiona two days ago, when he'd showed up unannounced to help her dress the corpse he'd made. But whatever it was had certainly upset her; later that afternoon, Fiona had used anger to mask something else as she'd told Michael that she couldn't be around him, and that if he needed help with Carlos, he'd have to call someone else.

He hadn't seen Fiona since they'd completed the fake bomb. After leaving Larry with the cops and the dumpster full of singed counterfeit bills, he'd sent off Jack Yablonski, then hurried over to his mother's house to say goodbye to Nate and Ruth. He'd spent the next several hours listening to police chatter at a few different locations around the city—at the courthouse, by the docks, and outside the police station. Apparently, there'd already been some intra-cartel violence following the incident with the bills in the dumpster. Michael regretted that violence, but knew it was inevitable; working for the cartels led down predictable roads, regardless of whether former spies meddled in the proceedings.

Convinced he'd heard his phone vibrate or ring, Michael shot a glance at the passenger's seat. A second later, he returned his eyes to the road, cursing his paranoia. There weren't many people in the world who could reliably unsettle him, but Larry was one, and Fiona was another. The recent intertwining of those forces was like a nightmare made real. He'd barely slept in days, and the sleep he'd managed had been thick with memories—thoroughly unwanted memories that he'd thought he'd forgotten, or hoped he had.

Michael wasn't sure whether to tell Fiona more about his past with Larry. The rational part of him told him to forget it, and hope Fiona eventually did the same. As a rule, Michael considered the past something to be learned from rather than dwelled on. His experiences with government psychiatrists had convinced him that talking about the past rarely did anything besides help it take up too much mental space, space that he needed for planning and surviving the next mission.

Yet recent events had also made Michael feel the weight of too many secrets. During the Thomas O'Neill affair two months before, he'd been disturbed to realize how much he still didn't know about Fiona's life. Being forced to resurrect Michael McBride had also unearthed many long-buried doubts and regrets. He'd hated speaking to Fiona in McBride's voice; at a time when he'd already felt hollowed out and helpless at the possibility of losing Fiona across an ocean, McBride's voice had signalled gulfs they might never overcome. The various ways he and Fiona had hurt each other over the years had changed them both; they'd never gotten closer without getting broken, and even strong vessels can only be repaired so many times before they succumb to their cracks. Years ago, Michael's relationship with the person who probably knew him better than anyone else in the world had begun and ended in lies. Since then, it had actually and nearly ended half-a-dozen more times the same way, most recently two days ago, when Larry had fed Fiona some toxic combination of truth and falsehood that would be difficult to refute, and impossible to untangle.

It was evening by the time Michael pulled the Charger into the driveway of the loft, though it seemed later; besides the day's undue physical and emotional toll, it was darker than it should be, the twilight sky nearly eclipsed by thick layers of grey clouds. As Michael made his way toward the loft's rusted steel stairs, the air was tense with the impending storm; an unnaturally cool breeze whistled through the thick humidity, irregularly rustling the palms and causing a staccato rattle in the gate.

At the foot of the stairs, Michael fished his keys out of his pocket, and paused, rooted to the spot by a flash of memory. The warm metal of the keys in his hand reminded him of the horn-handled karambit he'd held the day before, when he'd sat on the steel stairs waiting for Larry.

For most of an hour, Michael had planned to kill his former partner. Running his index finger back and forth over the safe edge of its blade, Michael had pictured Larry's death in meticulous detail. He knew exactly how the curved knife would feel catching and tearing in the thin skin and thicker veins and tendons of Larry's neck. He also knew how it would sound ripping Larry's flesh, how it would zip through the skin and pop on the tendons. There would be a metallic tinge at the back of his tongue as the scent of blood hit the air, and instinctively, he'd breathe deeper, trying to smell more. His adrenaline would spike as the warm blood spilled over his hands, his heart racing in sympathy and excitement as the final, strong pulses of Larry's life sounded against his palm. A moment later, Larry would collapse at his feet in a broken, lifeless heap, limbs bent at awkward angles at the centre of a widening scarlet stain.

Michael knew the physical signs and sensations of death because he'd killed before, both up close, and at a distance. But in more than two decades of military service and covert ops, he'd never consciously enjoyed the act of killing, or been motivated by personal forms of anger or grief to plot someone's death. Killing Strickler had been a crime of passion, but it had also been a desperate necessity; he'd killed Strickler to save Fiona, and, in saving her, save himself. The way he'd pictured Larry's death the day before had been different. Imagining Larry's severed throat gurgling its last sounds into his strong, steady hands, Michael had felt both calm and enraptured; sitting on the steel steps with the karambit in his hands, his body had been tense, but eager, anticipating a cathartic release.

Part of him still wanted to kill his former partner. But it was no longer a controlling part. Now, the part of him that wanted to slit Larry's throat was tempered by other concerns—like the part of him that kept thinking about the way Fiona had shrunk from his touch when she'd showed up at Madeline's house after her conversation with Larry, and told him she couldn't be near him.

In that moment, the dark look in Fiona's eyes had reminded him of the one and only time he'd intentionally hit her, during the affair with Barry's stolen ledger; although that backhanded slap had been part of a cover, Fiona's pain had been real. It had also reminded him of the time Fiona had demanded to know his real name, and he'd had to tell her. In all of those moments, Fiona and been angry, but it had been an anger born of hurt—the kind of deep, remorseless hurt that can fester or fade, but never really heals. Each time he'd confronted that hurt, Michael had felt sick before he felt numb; his hands had seemed heavy, strange, and too far away, like foreign objects that just happened to be connected to his wrists.

In the present, Michael tested the solidity of his hands by making a fist around his keys, fingers scraping the rough edges.

He was so preoccupied he actually closed the door behind him and took several steps into the loft before noticing Fiona perched on a bar stool at the kitchen table. He stopped in his tracks as she swiveled to face him.

"Fiona," he managed. "You're… here."

"I got your message," she replied, holding up her cell as evidence. "I wanted to talk, too. But I didn't want to start on the phone, so…"

"Yeah…"

Michael forced himself to finish crossing the room toward her. His right hand remained clenched around his keys in the pocket of his jeans as his eyes swept the room and the rafters, looking anywhere that wasn't in the direction of the woman he'd very much wanted to talk to, but suddenly didn't.

"You know, _you_ called _me_," Fiona reminded him. "So why do I get the feeling you'd rather I weren't here?"

Michael circled the table and picked a spot to lean against the kitchen cabinets, facing Fiona while avoiding her gaze. She was wearing a white dress with a flowing, asymmetrical hem and a low-cut back that left most of her tanned back and shoulders exposed, and whose only fastening seemed to be a single knot that tied at the back of her neck, under her loose hair.

Michael wondered about her priorities for the evening while also remembering what had happened three days ago, before Fiona had talked to Larry, and everything had gone sour. Then, Fiona had met Sam and himself at the door of her bungalow wearing a pale pink underwear set and brandishing a glass of merlot, thoroughly misinterpreting his request for a top-secret afternoon rendezvous. At the time, they'd both ignored the awkward miscommunication in favour of the crisis at hand. Now, though, Michael found himself regretting it, knowing Fiona wouldn't risk making the same mistake twice.

"It's fine," he assured her. "You just surprised me."

"So how did it go?"

"I'm square with the cartel, Jack's gone, and Larry's being held for questioning. They'll let him go, but he should be leaving Miami for a while."

"For a while…" Fiona echoed.

"What about you?" Michael redirected. "Did you get your neighbour's place cleaned up?"

"It doesn't reek like dead sicario anymore, if that's what you mean."

"I'm really sorry, Fi," he said genuinely, finally meeting her eyes.

As always, Fiona was beautiful. Michael had seen her look beautiful drenched in sweat, spattered with dirt, and dripping with mud. For Michael, Fiona had an inside-out beauty that was impossible to quell or disguise; her essence was irrepressible, because it was written into every posture, wrinkle, and scar. She did, however, look weary. Her cheeks were brightened and her lips were glossed, but her eyes were naked. That was a sign she was tired; she wouldn't want her sleep-watery eyes to bleed her makeup into the crease around her eyes, and make her feel old. Fiona had never told him that, of course. But it was part of Michael's job to read people, and Fiona was one of his most familiar studies. She was also one of his most challenging ones. Reading Fiona's clothes and makeup was easy compared to reading her words and thoughts; in those areas, Michael's own emotions too often clouded his judgement.

"Did you think I wouldn't come?" she asked.

"I guess I wasn't sure."

Fiona dropped her gaze. "When I saw you at Madeline's… I'd just come from watching Larry stitch a corpse into some slacks and a bowling shirt. He kept up a steady stream of dialogue while he did it. When he wasn't turning the man he murdered into a ventriloquist's dummy, he was telling me about how much you loved working with him. He also told me how much he loved working with you—because you'd do _anything_ to get the job done."

"And did you believe him?"

Fiona looked up again, and for a long moment, their eyes met across the table. Michael could no longer feel the keys in his pocket; he could still sense their shape, but his fingers were numb.

"No," she said at last.

Michael blinked, the only visible sign of his nearly overwhelming relief.

"But," Fiona continued, "I do want to know why you didn't tell me."

"Which part?"

"The part where Larry was your _partner_."

"I…" Michael started to lie, but stopped himself, humbled by Fiona's honestly from a moment before. "I don't like to think about that part of my life."

Fiona leaned forward, arms reaching across the slatted table. "How could you stand it, Michael? I spent an hour with Larry, and I needed a shower. You spent three _years_ with him."

"I know."

His voice was toneless against the storm of memories that had been threatening him for days, since Larry's second return in as many years. The same storm demanded movement and space, so he pushed himself away from the counter and walked toward the balcony doors. When he pulled the doors open, he was greeted with a noisy gust of wind and an ever-darkening sky.

Standing just inside the threshold of the doors, Michael looked out into the shifting expanse of grey and blue. Against his will, he was reminded of another grey sky from many years ago, hanging over a deserted street lined with bombed out buildings.

He didn't notice Fiona at his side until she spoke. "In our lives, we've both made hard choices, and we've both made mistakes. But Larry, he's…"

She shook her head as she trailed off, eyes drifting down to the swirling hem of her white dress.

"I've known men like that," she said. "Men like that don't kill for any reason, or cause. They kill because they like killing. And if you get too close to a person like that, it changes you. One way or another—I _know_ it changes you."

Michael shifted his weight, crossing his arms to squeeze his biceps with his faraway hands. He joined Fiona in watching the wind playing in her dress, thinking about how nice it would feel to run his fingers through the those soft folds, searching for the smooth, hard shape of Fiona's thighs.

"Did you want to kill him?" Fiona asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"So why didn't you?"

"It wouldn't have fixed anything," he said, then amended, "It wouldn't have gotten the cartel off my back."

Fiona nodded slowly. "I wanted to kill Thomas O'Neill. I still do."

Michael returned her nod.

Fiona said, "People like that… they deserve to be put down."

Michael wanted to agree with her, and in principle, he did. But as he returned his gaze to the sky above the balcony, it kept becoming somewhere else; instead of looking out the balcony doors of the loft, he was looking out the crumbling window frame of an empty apartment building through the scope of a sniper rifle.

Suddenly, a bright flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a loud, shuddering clap of thunder. In the same moment, the grey sky from the past changed back into the angry sky above present-day Miami.

"The storm's started," Fiona observed.

"Yeah," he agreed.

The rain began to fall in large, heavy drops, plopping and echoing against the balcony and the roof. Amid another flash of lightning and a deep rumble of thunder, the wind started to roar, and the rain changed, becoming thin, angry curtains of moisture, buffeted back and forth in the gusty air and slanting into the loft.

Michael was about to suggest closing the doors, but was silenced by another furious lightning strike, followed by a deafening peal of thunder. The lights in the loft surged, and then quit, plunging the space into a darkness broken only by the sputtering light of the storm.

Michael returned Fiona's questioning look before turning toward the darkened interior of the loft.

"Was it the storm?" Fiona asked.

"Probably," Michael replied, making his way back into the kitchen to collect his gun and a flashlight from the drawer next to the sink.

Sig Sauer and flashlight in hand, Michael surveyed the loft's other doors and windows. Through the north and east facing windows, he could see that the lights along the river were also out, along as those in the apartment complex across the street. The extensiveness of the outage didn't necessarily mean the power hadn't been intentionally cut; it could be a tactic to create a more convincing accident.

Michael turned back to Fiona, who was still standing by the balcony. He began to make a second attempt to recommend closing the doors, but the moment he saw her, the words died on his lips.

Fiona had removed her shoes to stand barefoot on the damp floorboards, her strong chin pointed defiantly at the storm. Her auburn hair was whipping across her cheeks and bare back, in the grip of the same wind that flung the hem of her glowing white dress forward, back, and up, exposing tantalizing swaths of her upper thighs. Fiona didn't seem to know or care about the unruliness of her dress; her arms were folded loosely across her chest, her left hand slowly massaging the still-purplish scar from Thomas O'Neill's bullet.

Michael walked to the kitchen and dropped his gun and flashlight onto the slatted table. He could feel a whisper of wind on his cheek as he watched Fiona's lips bend into a close-lipped smile. The smile was more lustful than wistful.

"It's beautiful," she said.

"Yes," Michael agreed seriously. "It is."

But Fiona didn't just look beautiful—she looked perfect. She belonged there with the elemental forces, scorching the earth with blinding explosions and rinsing it clean in a wild deluge.

In the next flash of lightning, Fiona looked at him, her eyes bright mirrors above her lustful smile. In the flash after that, she was still looking, but not at his face; her eyes were on his chest, sparkling with intent.

As Fiona's gaze disappeared again into the dark, Michael wet his lips under its lingering heat. The memory of her sparkling eyes penetrated his clothes and skin, and made a churning home in his gut.

He stood still through another flash, and then another, waiting for Fiona to act on her look. Fiona didn't move, but her eyes did, travelling down his body and up again, not quite meeting his gaze before the lightning snuffed out and the air combusted in thunder.

Aftershocks trembled through the floor as Michael walked toward the storm. He got wetter with each step, until the rain spattered his cheek, and the hem of Fiona's dress furled and snapped against his legs. In a fresh glare of lightning, he stepped into Fiona's body, and rode out the next series of aftershocks with his churning gut grounded against her pelvis, sucking madly on her lips and tongue while her hands kneaded the back pockets of his too-tight jeans.

For a moment, Michael contemplated guiding Fiona out onto the balcony; he wanted to see her bent over the railing, legs clinging to his waist and catching rain in her open mouth. But he rejected the idea quickly. Where he really wanted to be was on his back or on his knees, surrendering to that perfect contradiction that only Fiona could make him feel—lost, but also found.

He hauled Fiona into the loft, heading for the bed. Every step of the way, she fought for control of their frantic dance, shoving him away mid-kiss to wrestle his T-shirt over his head, then using his belt to yank him forward while his arms were still tangled in the sleeves. As he tried to concentrate on the delicate knot on the back of her dress, she squeezed him roughly through his jeans, teeth closing on his earlobe while he gagged on a moan and struggled to decide whether to push her away or pull her closer.

The storm continued to crash and bang, but Michael no longer noticed. Standing naked at the foot of the bed, his whole world was the woman in his arms whose deft hands were working his body into a frenzy. One hand thumbed his nipples while the other worked his ass, the smooth folds of her own pleasure centre pressing and grinding against his cock. At the same time, Michael tangled his left hand in Fiona's windswept hair, holding her steady as he kissed and licked the rain off her neck and collarbone. His right hand wove through her shoulder blades and down her spine before finally diving between her thighs to stroke through her pulsing heat.

As he angled Fiona toward the bed, she did what he'd hoped she'd do, reversing his hold to knock him down onto the mattress. Michael pulled her down with him, and groaned through a sigh when she landed hard on his chest, her knee narrowly avoiding his groin. Her weight was wonderful sliding against his naked length, her hair falling in a curtain over his face and sticking to his sweat-moist skin as she captured his mouth, and stole his breath. Her shape merged with his as he outlined her body, hands sinking into the hard hollow of her back before climbing the softer crest of her buttocks to the smooth planes of her thighs.

When Fiona used his chest to fling herself upright, he missed her weight terribly until she made him forget it, encasing him in her tight, perfect warmth. For a moment, he was overwhelmed. A moment later, he fought off a whimper of need. A moment after that, he surrendered to her pace, breathing with the rhythm of her of long, deep strokes. His hands settled around the hard curves of her hips, fingers tightening and releasing, and tightening again.

The lightning struck again in two quick, close flashes, overlapping with high, popping cracks of thunder. Michael saw the light glance off Fiona's cheekbone above her wide, full lips, and suddenly, he was still holding her hip, but it wasn't her hip. It was a trigger, and he was lying the other way around—on his stomach, looking down at a deserted street lined with bombed out buildings under a mottled grey sky.

Through the scope of his Remington, his eyes followed two dark shapes swaddled in heavy, hooded jackets. He heard Larry's voice in his ear.

"You got 'em, kid?"

"Yeah," he replied. "I got 'em."

His first shot hit the shape on the left; it dropped instantly as the bullet sailed through its hood. The shape on the right only managed a half turn before he fired his second shot. Michael saw the high cheekbones and full, red lips of a beautiful female face stiffen with shock a fraction of a second before the same features went blank in death. The woman had been carrying a picnic basket, and its contents spilled out when she fell; the basket had been filled with food, wrapped in foil and paisley cloth.

"_Michael_."

Fiona's eyes flashed above him as her hands raked through his hair, fingernails scraping the back of his neck before digging into his shoulders.

"Come back, Michael," she demanded. "Come _back_…"

Michael inhaled and released a shaky breath, struggling through a crashing wave of sensation as Fiona's voice and rough hands wrenched him back to the present. He reached up to touch Fiona's face in the darkness, and she pressed her lips into his palm before scraping his skin with her teeth. When he dropped his hand to her neck, she opened herself to his touch, tossing her head back to let him feel her strong, quick pulse, his thumb stroking the roughness of her trachea and the soft underside of her jaw. In the next flash of lightning, Michael saw his large hand cradling Fiona's slim neck as her glistening flesh undulated with pleasure. Her hard nipples trembled as her hair bounced against her back and rolling shoulders; all the while, her lidded eyes flickered and her mouth gaped, longing to devour the echoing rain.

Fiona's pulse swallowed his own a moment before they were both swallowed by the darkness. Into the howling wind and the thunder that rumbled through his thighs to meet the quickening friction of Fiona's heat around his, Michael breathed Fiona's name. He breathed it again and again until it became a silent mantra, an anchor amid the building fury of the storm.

His teeth gritted on a desperate groan as he dropped his right foot to the floor and threw his arms behind him, pushing deeper into Fiona's tightness. In response, Fiona gasped and lurched forward before hurling herself back, arching her spine into the furious final strokes. She cried her release into the ceiling and Michael joined her a moment later, not crying out, but wanting to.

Michael collapsed back into the mattress and Fiona went with him, ribs crashing. He panted against Fiona's weight while squeezing her tighter, forgetting his own weight and shape amid the scents of damp wood and spent passion. Shortly thereafter, and for the first time in days, he managed to forget everything.

"I think it's over."

Michael's eyes blinked open at the sound of Fiona's voice. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, but there was a thin layer of sweat between his body and Fiona's, and his left hand had lost all feeling where it lay trapped under her thigh. Given the potentially suspicious power outage, the open balcony doors, and the fact that Larry was still in town, he knew he should be angry at himself for drifting off. But he wasn't; though Michael routinely tried to force himself to regret surrendering to Fiona, he was rarely successful.

As he shifted his weight, Fiona peeled herself off his chest, her body coming loose with a sticky pop of sweat and other fluids. Rolling onto his stomach to face the balcony, Michael rested his chin on his folded arms. Fiona followed him, her own chin finding a home between his shoulder blades, a leg draping lazily over his as her fingers traced gentle patterns in the hair behind his ear, the same ear she'd assaulted with her teeth as they'd stumbled toward the bed.

The storm did seem to be over. It was no longer raining, though water continued to drip and gurgle down the windows and off the roof and trees, accompanied by dim flashes of lightning and distant rumbles of thunder. Inside the loft, it was almost totally dark.

They laid there until a new layer of sweat started to form between their bodies, at which point Fiona pulled away, and climbed out of bed. Michael climbed out on the opposite side and rummaged through the trail of discarded clothes for his phone.

"Here," he said, handing the phone to Fiona.

"What am I supposed to—"

"Flashlight," he explained. "For if you want to use the bathroom. The water should work for a while."

"You don't have more than one flashlight? Or any candles?"

"I have some night vision goggles…"

"This is fine. Be back in a minute."

Michael located his boxers in the tangled pile of clothes and slipped them on before heading to the kitchen. He turned on his only flashlight and stood it upright on the kitchen table, creating a column of light that made the space navigable, if not exactly well-lit. Opening the ancient fridge that was still cool but wouldn't be for long, Michael retrieved two yogurts—blueberry for himself, and raspberry for Fiona.

He was half done his yogurt by the time Fiona returned, wearing a clean pair of his boxers paired with a white undershirt. She hopped up onto the bar stool next to his, and cracked open her yogurt.

"How long do you think the power will be out?" she asked.

"Last time, it was a few hours. Oleg will take care of it."

Fiona nodded as her lips cleaned her spoon; she was lit unevenly and harshly by the narrow beam of the flashlight, lending a skeletal intensity to the proud, fine scaffolding of her face.

She was looking down at her spoon when she asked, "Where did you go back there?"

"I don't remember," he lied.

Michael felt Fiona's eyes hot on his profile, but worked hard to ignore them, concentrating instead on his final spoonful of yogurt. Fiona abandoned her own spoon in her yogurt cup as she leaned back from the table.

"I keep thinking," she began, "about something Larry said. While he was bragging about how well he understood you, he compared himself to me. He said we... _relate_ to you the same way. Because sometimes, we're just what you need, and other times, you push us away."

Michael met her gaze in the glare of the flashlight. Fiona was thinner and harder than she'd been in Ireland. In Ireland, there'd been a girlish softness to her deceptively delicate frame; her hips had been subtly rounder, her cheeks fuller. Now, she was hungrier and stronger—more guarded, but just as brave. Michael thought about the lustful smile she'd used to welcome the storm—how she'd been one with its destructive, cleansing power, and perfect in that oneness. He also thought about the way she'd greeted his hand on her throat; Fiona had known he'd been holding her life in his hands, but she'd either wanted him to, or didn't care, believing her pleasure was worth the risk.

Michael set down his spoon and laid his hands on the table, palms down.

"At the beginning," he said, "Larry didn't seem that bad. In some of those places, at those times, you were happy for any familiar face. I was twenty-three when we started, and I'd seen some things. But sometimes, you'd wake up, and the air would smell like… Anyway, Larry was right about one thing—we were a good team. And we were doing important work. When I finally realized what he was, I thought if I could just channel what he could do, make sure he didn't fall too far out of line… But by then, it was too late."

He'd been looking down at his hands as he spoke. There was a small cut on the knuckle of his index finger. He wasn't sure where he'd gotten it; that day alone, it could have happened a dozen different ways. Gilroy had told him he had a working man's hand, and it was true; Michael couldn't recall a time when his hands hadn't been calloused, cut, or bruised.

"What you said before," he continued, "about needing a shower… For a while, I felt like that every day. When I realized I'd started to get used to it, I felt worse. I remember wondering if there'd be a day when I couldn't tell the difference—when I couldn't tell if I was dirty or clean. But instead, I started to forget. Each day, I'd wake up, and get a bit better at forgetting to feel dirty."

"When you were working with Larry?"

"No. When I was working with you."

Michael wished his words could have felt like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. But he didn't feel lighter so much as exhausted. His hands were once again strange, though they were no longer numb; now, they were warm with the imagined memory of Larry's blood.

He was still staring at his strange hands when Fiona reached across the table and covered his left hand with her right one. Then, she hooked her fingers around his palm and squeezed, her short, sharp nails making indents in his palm. Fiona's fingers were just as calloused, but like the rest of her, they were also impossibly delicate. Looking down at their joined hands, Michael marveled at that delicateness, wondering how something so small could be so strong.

After a long moment, Fiona withdrew her hand, and cleared her throat.

"You know," she began, "there's one other, very important thing we haven't talked about."

"Which is…."

"Nate's wife."

Michael released a silent, relieved sigh, improbably grateful for a shift toward his family's recent domestic drama.

"She seems... nice," he offered.

"You said the same thing about Campbell," Fiona observed.

"They were trying to convince my mom to move to Vegas."

Fiona mimed a low whistle. "I'm sure that went well."

"It might be better for her. It would be safer."

"Safer isn't always better."

Michael clenched his jaw, and swallowed. "I guess so."

"So Madeline doesn't want to go?"

"My mom and Ruth haven't exactly been hitting it off."

"That's not why she'll stay."

"Oh?"

"She'll stay because you need her."

Michael affixed her with an incredulous look. "_I _need _her_."

"From a tactical standpoint. What would we do without an extra base of operations?"

"We'd have your place."

Fiona snorted. "_That's_ not happening again."

Michael's expression softened, remembering their miscommunication from three days before. "What if there was an afternoon meeting that didn't involve a corpse?"

"Depends on the corpse. And the company."

Michael watched Fiona's deadpan expression slowly transform into a small, playful smile. The smile still gleamed in her eyes as she retrieved her spoon, and slid it slowly into her mouth, lips lingering on the cool, damp metal.

Later, Michael found himself staring up at the black ceiling, Fiona's naked body curled against his own amid a rumpled pile of bed sheets and a deafening silence. The storm was long gone, the power was still off, and the balcony doors were closed. Michael wanted to get up and put on some pyjama pants or boxers; for tactical and personal reasons, he didn't like sleeping naked. But he didn't want to wake Fiona, who was sleeping soundly with her cheek against his shoulder.

Yet it wasn't just his nakedness that was making it impossible to sleep. Michael was still thinking about the hooded figures on the bombed out street under the mottled grey sky, and wondering why he'd kept the story from Fiona. The things he had told her had been difficult to admit, and weren't untrue. But they'd also been evasions; he'd told Fiona the parts that he thought she'd want to hear, rather than the parts that might make her touch or look at him differently—or, the parts that might make her not want to touch him at all.

Larry had told him the hooded figures were ruthless assassins turned double-agents, on their way across the border to sell dangerous secrets. And maybe they had been; new to the conflict and under orders to maintain radio silence with command, Michael had accepted Larry's intel. Yet he'd wondered then, and still wondered now, why an experienced double-agent on the run for her life would wear cherry red lipstick and carry a picnic basket full of colourfully wrapped food. The food itself could have signaled the affluence of corruption, yet the look of fear and incomprehension on the woman's face a moment before her death suggested something more complicated, which he hadn't worked hard enough to understand. In hindsight, it seemed entirely possible that one or both of the hooded figures had been either innocent or collateral damage; Larry might have told him to shoot the hooded figures because killing them was easier than trying to work with them or save them, or simply to send a message, reminding him that no one escaped a war zone without blood on their hands.

Yet as guilty as Michael felt for not telling Fiona about the possibly innocent people he'd killed, he felt guiltier about withholding his real reasons for not killing Larry. Fiona had been right—sometimes, men like Larry did need to be put down. After everything he'd done and would likely do in the days to come, Larry deserved to die, just as beautiful women trying to flee a war zone or simply enjoy a picnic amid the rubble deserved to live. But, sitting on the steel steps the day before with the karambit in his hand, Michael had finally realized that he couldn't kill Larry. It wasn't because they'd once been partners, or because he thought there was anything redeemable left behind Larry's shark's smile. Instead, it was because when he'd pictured ending Larry's life, the image had a coda, in which Larry used his last, gurgling breath to deliver a delirious laugh, meant just for Michael. He was laughing because he knew that through his death at his former protégé's hands, he'd finally won.

The options were grim: if he killed Larry, he'd lose himself; and if he didn't, he was sure he'd lose Fiona. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday, when she finally saw the depths and consequences of what he'd done—or, what he hadn't done. As always, Fiona's body in his arms was a brief respite and an undeserved luxury.

Moment by moment, the dark silence seemed to acquire a physical substance. Michael could feel it closing in and pressing down on him, making it impossible to move and difficult to breath.

Fiona twitched and stirred against his side. Michael thought she'd turn away, but she didn't; after a deep breath and a small stretch, she wedged herself tighter into the crook of his neck, and slid her hand across his midsection to twine her fingers with his. Michael focused on her hand, and after a time, there was a breathable space in the darkness.

Michael finally fell asleep with Fiona's small, strong hand engulfing his larger one—still lost, but temporarily found.

**~END~ **(for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** I know that was a bit darker than I usually go, but the context required it, I think. Anyway, at least Michael and Fiona finally reconnected after a couple of chapters' worth of false starts! Upward and onward :)


	5. Reunion

**Set during and after the opening scene of "Reunion," Season 6, Episode 7**

* * *

She was the one who'd wanted to see the sunrise.

Michael had clenched his jaw, but conceded, sending Sam and Jesse on their way with plans for Sam to meet them at the loft an hour later. Fiona had known her request wouldn't be popular. Michael was visibly anxious, and not without cause. It had been less than forty-eight hours since Nate had died in his arms. Before that, he'd had months of burning the candle at both ends, doing any job or favour that might get him closer to Anson and help secure her release from Allarod Federal Penitentiary. At that moment, Fiona knew that virtually the last place Michael would want to be was sitting idly on a sandy beach with miles of clear sight lines. But what Michael wanted, and what he needed, weren't necessarily the same; after everything that had happened and was about to happen in the days to come, Fiona felt certain they both needed some space to decompress, however briefly.

Also, she'd wanted to see the sunrise. As much as she also wanted to take Michael home, where they could close and lock the door behind them and be truly alone for the first time in months, she wanted the sunrise more.

For someone whose life frequently depended on his ability to make split-second decisions based on little more than a target's twitchy upper lip, Michael could be startlingly bad at reading the people he supposedly knew well. There were some things, though, that Michael could be relied upon to understand—like the trauma of imprisonment, and the body and soul-wrenching stress of being used. Michael's experience in those areas was enough for him to put his own desires aside and lay out a blanket for them to sit as they looked out at the gently rolling waves. He even kicked off his shoes and socks and sank his bare feet into the sand, something Fiona had never seen him do in all the years they'd lived in Miami.

There was nothing Fiona hated more than being used. Much of her life had been a passionate if not-always-successful protest against any and all attempts to curtail her independence. When she was younger, she'd advertised that independence by saying she'd rather die than go to prison. She'd tried to frame such declarations as manifestations of bravery, symbols of her righteous commitment to the Cause. But part of her had always known she'd been lying. The idea of prison had been intolerable not because she'd been brave, but because she'd been terrified. Being locked away for months or years in a concrete box had scared her so badly, she hadn't believed she could survive it.

That fear had still been with her when she'd turned herself in on the courthouse steps two months before, but had been conquered by the only thing stronger than fear. In some ways, Fiona's decision to turn herself in reminded her of her decision to join Michael in the bullet-ridden cabana during the standoff with Vaughn, when dying had seemed more tolerable than the thought of living without him. Turning herself in had been the harder choice, because saving Michael had also meant losing him, and living with that loss. Yet it had also been easier, because she'd known it was right. Fiona maintained a vivid memory of hearing Michael's voice frantically calling her name across the courthouse parking lot. When she'd calmly turned to face him with her hands above her head, he'd had her farewell letter clutched in his fist, not yet believing the reality she'd already accepted: that they might never touch each other again, but it was okay, because at least they'd kept their souls.

Now, sitting under the pinkish dawn with the sand between her toes and Michael by her side, Fiona smiled at the memory. It was a small concession to what she really felt. Between them and together, she and Michael had survived a hundred shootouts and explosions, at least one suicide bomb, and the decades-long machinations of an international conspiracy. But all of that was nothing compared to surviving each other's worst fears. Fiona was almost giddy at the impossibility of it all. Though she tried to temper her giddiness with thoughts of Nate, she wasn't yet ready to regret the costs of their victory. At the moment, the fact of that victory was too much like the sunrise—big, bright, and boundless.

"It's beautiful," she said, addressing the thick shafts of yellow sunlight knifing through the white clouds. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see another sunrise."

Her smile survived a pang of guilt when she confronted Michael's eyes. It was clear his own thoughts were decidedly less blissful. But he managed a small nod before returning his troubled eyes to the sun and the waves.

"Thank you," she said. "For not giving up."

Michael squinted into the sun as he replied, "Consider it payback for the thousand times you never gave up on me."

Fiona closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the ocean air, trying to make the moment last. Four years ago, she wouldn't have trusted Michael's feelings. And as recently as a few months ago, she wouldn't have trusted his feelings not to take him down the wrong path, one that might have destroyed her own ability to love him.

Fiona released her breath, and opened her eyes.

"We should go," she said, checking her watch. "Sam will be waiting."

She made a move to get to her feet, but Michael gripped her bicep, stopping her.

"Fi, this could get bad."

In response to her questioning look, Michael released her arm, eyes flickering uncertainly as he rubbed his hands between his raised knees.

"I want you to sit this out," he said.

Fiona stared at his profile, honestly wondering if she'd misheard him. "What?"

"You already went to prison to protect me," Michael explained. "And this… this won't be easy."

"Okay… And?"

Michael looked down at his anxious hands. "Have you ever thought that… you deserve better than this?"

Fiona shook her head as her smile fell. The irony would be funny if it weren't so bitter, and so typical. While she was busy savouring their triumph over all the doubts and fears that had actually and almost broken them so many times before, Michael was asking if she wanted to leave him.

"Michael… All I wanted was to be by your side. I'm not leaving it again." She couldn't help the frustration that crept into her voice; it was tiring to have to repeat something Michael should already know.

"I've missed you, Fi."

Fiona knew Michael's words were an apology. She also knew that he meant them, even if his voice was somewhat toneless, his gaze still pulled toward the waves.

"Good," she said.

Michael turned to her, and she greeted him with a more subdued version of her earlier smile. Michael didn't quite smile back, but his expression did soften, his sun bleached eyes melting into hers. As his face drew closer, Fiona laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Now," she declared. "Let's go find the bastard who killed your brother."

They were both silent throughout the short drive to the loft. At first, Fiona was grateful for the silence. For two months, she'd been sleeping with one eye open, jerking awake at any real or imagined creak of sound or gust of air. Loathe as she was to admit it, Fiona had missed Michael's tactical skills almost as much as his intimate ones. She'd always been one to take care of herself, but doing so was infinitely easier with Michael by her side; it was also, of course, much more enjoyable. She glanced at Michael in the driver's seat, and let herself be comforted by the familiar sight of him carefully watching the road and the mirrors with both hands on the white steering wheel.

Pretending to watch their approach to the causeway through the windshield, Fiona continued to study Michael's profile. When she reached the pointed arch of his beloved lips, it occurred to her that, besides the hug they'd shared in front of the prison and their brief, companionable touches on the beach, they hadn't embraced since she'd been released. The realization shocked her. She started to wonder about her own desires and actions, her need to see the sunrise, and the hand she'd lain on Michael's back when he'd clearly been leaning in to kiss her. It was true they were in a hurry; every minute that passed, the trail of Nate's killer grew colder. But if Michael had been willing to kiss her—in public, no less—why hadn't she been willing to kiss him back?

Michael caught her studying him, and Fiona met his eyes quickly, battling back a nearly overwhelming desire to avoid them. For a moment, she was sure Michael was going to break the silence. But something about her expression seemed to stop him, and he returned his attention to the road.

Fiona returned her own gaze to the passenger's side window and tried to enjoy her reunion with the familiar scenery. They were on the causeway, surrounded by the endless ocean, the low sun flashing on the shiny rows of cars. It was a view she'd always loved, whether during the day or at night, when the sparkling cars seemed to float above the inky blackness of the water. But her view was haunted by the hazy reflection of her own face in the window.

Watching her ghostly face in the glass, Fiona started to remember the first time Michael had visited her in jail, when his tears had been imprinted with the reflection of her own. She remembered the way she'd cradled the phone in both her hands and held it tight against her mouth and cheek, treasuring the lifeline to Michael's body. It had been the vibration of Michael's strained and broken voice against her ear that had first made her cry. The reality of their separation had come crashing home in the close sound of his tears and the brutal inadequacy of that closeness; Michael had been a few feet away, but as long as they were separated by a pane of glass, the distance might as well be a thousand miles.

Wanting to reassure herself of Michael's closeness, but not willing to risk another glance across the seats, Fiona closed her eyes, and tried to feel him with her other senses. Concentrating, she could sense the heat of his body near her bare arm, and smell his shaving soap and cologne—his own cologne, the one he wore when he was playing himself.

As she built a picture of Michael in her mind's eye, she found herself contending with another recent memory. It began with a conversation she'd had with Ayn over a game of chess in the prison rec room.

Without looking up from the board, Ayn had asked, "So what's he like, this boyfriend of yours?"

Fiona had blinked sightlessly at the chess pieces, paralyzed by the question.

While taking her rook with a bishop, Ayn's had cocked an eyebrow. "Hey, you don't have to talk about it. I just thought—"

"It's not that," Fiona had interrupted. "It's just… Michael's not easy to describe."

"Okay… Well, then, start with what he looks like. He got a nice smile? Nice eyes? Nice ass…?"

Fiona's lips had curved into a hint of a smile at Ayn's prodding—the first time she'd come close to smiling in that awful place. "Yeah," she'd confirmed, voice taking on a dreamy quality as she recalled the features in question.

Ayn had mimed a low whistle. "All of that, huh? No wonder you can't remember the rest of him."

Later that night, Fiona had laid on her prison cot, thinking about Michael. About his smile. His eyes. His ass… When the fluorescent lights had finally shut off for the night, she'd reached her hand inside her low-zipped orange jumpsuit. Her hand had been Michael's hand before it became his lips and tongue, the roughness of her own skin becoming the friction of Michael's stubble.

Afterwards, she'd felt good a moment before she'd felt lonely, far lonelier than before trying to alleviate her loneliness. The walls had closed in as the glow of her pleasure had faded, and she'd had to flip onto her stomach and bury her face in her pillow to keep from screaming, a scream that began in fear and heartache and morphed into anger at that same fear and heartache. Teeth clenching in her pillow, she'd been furious at the walls and sick at the impotence of her fury. If she'd been free, she would have run, thrown something, hit someone, or gone too fast behind the wheel of her Genesis. But inside the prison walls, she hadn't been able to do any of those things; inside the walls, revealing weakness, even for a moment, was impossible.

Fiona opened her eyes into the sunny landscape of the present. She could still see and feel Michael beside her, but somehow, it no longer mattered. As the beach had disappeared, so had her feeling of triumph. Within the close confines of the Charger, the strongest smell had become the prison soap in her hair, and her dress—the same dress she'd been wearing when she'd turned herself in at the courthouse—felt increasingly filmy against her skin.

Fiona shifted in the seat, and for a moment, the shape and texture of her dress seemed to change. As she looked down at her bare arms, she saw long sleeves with a pattern of blue and maroon flowers.

Her arms had become bare again by the time Michael pulled the Charger into the driveway of the loft. But her unease remained as she exited the car, followed Michael up the rusted steps, and closed the heavy steel door behind them.

Fiona took several steps into the cavernous, industrial space that had become her home, and then stopped, taking in the scene. The loft was very much as it had been two months before. All of her furniture and keepsakes were in their usual places, and Michael had clearly been watering her plants. But in small ways, the space had also reverted to its default Michael-ness; the bed was made without her decorative throw pillows, and there were no cut flowers by the window or on the table. In prison, time had passed slowly, until the days had bled together, and become meaningless. But her diminished presence in her own home highlighted exactly how long she'd been gone.

She tensed as Michael's fingers trailed up her bare arm, and had gone numb with cold by the time his hand climbed to the back of her neck, pulling her close for what she could only assume was a deeply passionate kiss. She returned the kiss automatically; Michael's body felt faraway in her lifeless hands, his tongue rough and tasteless sliding against her own.

Quickly sensing her coldness, Michael released her, and stepped back, a question on his face. "Are you okay?"

Fiona opened her mouth to respond, but even her words seemed frozen. She cleared her throat, and tried again. "I'm fine," she assured him. "It's just been a while."

"Yeah…" Michael was trying to read her face, but she pretended to be interested in the glare of the sun through the east-facing windows.

Momentarily defeated by her evasions, Michael turned, and continued into the kitchen, dropping his sunglasses onto the slatted table.

"We've still got a few minutes before Sam comes," he said. "You should have a shower."

Fiona ran her fingers through her lank hair as she took a few steps that seemed to bring her closer to Michael, but in fact moved her sideways. "You can smell that prison soap too, huh?"

"That's not what I—"

"I know. I'm kidding."

The heat of Michael's eyes on her profile suggested he didn't believe her.

"Are my things still in the bathroom?" she asked.

"Everything is where you left it."

Fiona was sure Michael's words were meant to reassure her, but instead they struck her strangely. She hadn't left—not really. And things definitely weren't the same, a fact that both soothed and scared her; she didn't want to pretend things hadn't changed, but she also didn't want them to have changed too much.

She told her feet to move forward, rather than back—to step into Michael's body, and make herself truly at home. But even as she told herself one thing, she was doing another, turning away from Michael, and heading toward the shower. She felt Michael watching her go; his hurt was like a physical thing, reaching out to pull her back. The sensation tightened her chest, but there was nothing she could do besides struggle to breathe; she'd become a passenger in her own body, confused by her course, yet powerless to stop.

Once inside the tiny bathroom with the door closed behind her, Fiona expelled a shaky breath, and gulped in a new one. In an effort to steady herself, she ran her hands over her shoulders and forearms. But instead of the solace of her own warm skin, she felt the long sleeves of the dress with the blue and maroon flowers. With a sudden, desperate rage, she tore at her dress, wrenching the straps off her arms and yanking the bodice down her body before kicking the crumpled garment toward the door.

She jerked open the tap of the shower, and waited for the water to warm. As she waited, she took a moment to inspect her reflection in the mirror, hoping to confirm her banishment of both her filmy white dress and the blue and maroon sleeves. Though the mirror did confirm her nakedness, the nature of that nakedness wasn't especially comforting. Her hair was dull and frizzed, and her skin looked dry, and almost leathery. Running a hand over her stomach to her hips, Fiona contemplated other changes. She was thinner and stronger than she'd been when she'd turned herself in at the courthouse; she also had a new scar on her left forearm, one she'd likely have for the rest of her life.

Part of her was proud of the changes her imprisonment had wrought. Her new muscles and scars were badges of honour—trophies from her survival. Another part of her was disturbed by what she saw; confronting her dull hair and drawn face didn't help the disorienting sensation of being a guest in her own body.

Fiona turned deliberately away from the mirror, hungry to escape into the shower. Though the loft was already warm, she made the water as hot as possible, so hot it nearly scalded her skin when she stepped under the spray.

At first, the thin, hot needles felt wonderful against her naked skin. Fiona released a heavy sigh as she rolled her shoulders in the water, then reached for her L'Occitane citrus shampoo, her favourite since living in Miami. She worked the shampoo slowly and thoroughly through her nutrient starved locks, and by the time she'd rinsed her conditioner, she was starting to feel more like herself. It seemed like years since she'd remembered how good a shower could feel, how it could be almost as good as the hands or lips of a lover.

On a whim, she picked up Michael's shower soap rather than her own, wanting to breathe in its familiar, mannish scent. Too late, she realized her mistake. As she massaged the soap over her prison hardened curves, the strangeness of Michael's absence resounded through her body. Michael could have been with her—should have been with her—but for some reason she didn't fully understand, he wasn't.

When she slid the soap over her forearms, the sleeves with the blue and maroon flowers returned, bringing with them a memory she'd been fighting all morning, ever since Michael had told her about Nate's death at the hands of a mysterious sniper. The blue and maroon sleeves belonged to the hideous babydoll dress she'd been wearing over a pair of jeans the day Claire died. She remembered seeing the sleeves in front of her face as she'd lashed out at her brother Sean, who'd brought her the news. She'd been desperate to believe the news was a cruel prank, or someone's—anyone's—fault. Anything would have been better than what it was—random, senseless, and shattering. She'd hugged Sean after assaulting him, yet the hug had felt like a cage—like the prison she claimed she'd rather die than endure.

The shower curtain brushed her skin, and she recoiled with shock only to bump into another wall. She tried to step back, but there were walls everywhere, while the ground kept slipping away from her feet. She hurled the shower pouf blindly into the scalding stream and heard it splat against the tiles. Realizing she'd need something harder to burst through the wall, she threw the shampoo, and then the conditioner, followed by the shower soap. Then she threw the metal shower caddy; it clattered against the tiles, but it still wasn't enough.

Fiona dove aggressively but clumsily forward, searching frantically for more weapons. She hadn't taken two steps before she crashed into something solid. She tried to fight it off, throwing fists and a powerful but poorly aimed kick. But the solid thing swallowed her blows, and then held her fists, wrapping her up in her own arms and holding her still as she shook with heavy, wrenching sobs.

Michael's voice reached her ears, but dimly, competing with the pounding echo of the water and her own gulping, raspy breaths. At one point, she became sure she was hearing his voice through the prison phone, and she wailed with fresh rage, clawing at his body as though it were the walls that had kept her from it. The next moment, his hands were the handcuffs that had nearly kept her from saving him, rattling on her wrists as she screamed with helpless, brutal fury. Through it all, Michael continued to hold her, smoothing her wet hair and steadying her tremors against his chest.

Her tears stopped sometime after the water did. Fiona came back to herself slowly, seizing a detail at time until they formed a strange scene. She was naked on the floor of the ceramic bathtub with Michael sitting behind her, soaking wet but fully clothed. She was between his knees with her back against his chest, resting limply inside the forearm he wrapped around her bare breasts and the hand that curled around her waist. Trails of blue and yellow soap were splattered across the walls, and several open and dented soap and shampoo bottles were visible inside the tub and beyond it.

In a hoarse but clear voice, she asked, "Did I hit you?"

"It doesn't matter," Michael assured her, his own voice not entirely steady.

Fiona shifted to sit up straighter, and Michael loosened his grip enough to let her.

"I should have been there," she said.

"It's my fault that you weren't."

Michael clearly thought she was thinking about Nate. And in part, she was. But she was also thinking about Claire.

"Don't do that," she said tightly.

"What?"

"Make it all about you."

"But it is all about me," Michael returned, his own voice acquiring a hint of sharpness. "Anson targeted _me_. My family. My life."

"It's my life too, Michael."

"You think I don't know that?"

Fiona seethed for a moment in Michael's arms, then tore herself free and scrambled to her feet. She didn't look back as she yanked a towel from the rack, one of her own Turkish cotton towels, which she'd brought to the loft when her things had merged with Michael's. The towels were exactly where she'd left them, just like Michael had promised. Acknowledging that truth conjured a fresh pang of guilt, which in turn made her angrier.

She dried herself quickly, eager to cover her nakedness. She wished she could thank Michael for bringing her back to herself, but couldn't, because she still didn't feel like herself. If she'd been herself, she would have dropped her towel and returned to his arms, where she'd wet the smooth, hard planes of his chest with kisses instead of tears. On the beach less than an hour before, their victory had seemed glorious in its impossibility. Now, it just seemed impossible. Rather than reveling in their victory, Fiona found herself in the midst of a new battle with a mysterious enemy, one that had her lashing out at the one person who didn't deserve it at the exact time he needed her most.

Fiona tied her towel around her breasts and reached for a second one to squeeze the water from her tangled hair. But as she turned toward the towel rack, she caught a glimpse of Michael. And for the second time that morning, she froze.

Michael was bent all the way over, untying his ruined shoes. His sodden clothes hugged his body like a second skin, his black suit pants contracting around his thighs and glutes as he kicked off his shoes and socks, then straightened his back. When he reached up to shake a hand through his damp hair, his nipples were hard pebbles under the thin fabric of his blue dress shirt. The wet shirt wrinkled around the fine texture of his undershirt and the thicker shapes of his lean muscles.

Michael caught her eye while his hand was still raised. He returned her gaze as he completed the gesture, stroking slowly through his short, dark hair to the back of his neck. Fiona's hands clenched in her towel as she confronted Michael's shiny blue eyes. She was still frozen, though she was no longer cold. Instead, she was drowning in a tide of heat that started in her face and dropped to her chest before swirling through her stomach to her thighs.

She needed Michael to unfreeze her—needed it as much as she'd ever needed anything in her entire life. But she was almost certain that what she needed was beyond his power to understand. For as long as she'd known the man before her as Michael Westen, she'd been the instigator of their intimacy. She'd been the one to mount endless sieges upon his untouchability, wearing down his defenses until he surrendered as much to himself as to her. Over the years, he had started to change, offering tantalizing glimpses of the man he'd once been, on another continent, and under another name. But those glimpses had been just that—glimpses. Michael Westen had never truly stopped wanting and needing her in the driver's seat, giving him permission to be defeated by his own desires.

But even if she didn't always trust Michael to understand her, he'd always been able to surprise her. Now, bedraggled and hurting, standing barefoot in a shallow pool of water under a murky yellow light, he proceeded to do just that. Still meeting her gaze, Michael moved his hands to the top of his shirt, and started to strip.

One button at a time, Michael exposed the contours of his chest hugged by the transparent wetness of his white undershirt. Fiona devoured the flex of his pecs as he extended and jerked his arms to peel his dress shirt off his sopping skin, and swallowed with the smacking sound it made when it finally lifted free of his back and shoulders. His undershirt climbed his midsection in sticky inches before he reached back to pull it forward over his head. The motion forced him to break his gaze, leaving Fiona free to study the liquid motion of his glistening flesh, and flit with anticipation across his lower half. His shrunken pants and boxers clung almost desperately to his flesh, forcing him to hook his thumbs in the waistbands of both and twist his hips to start them moving down his body. They made a waxy, shuffling sound as they crept down his thighs.

Finally, Michael stepped out of his pants, and stood naked before her. He wasn't hiding or posing; his hands hung loosely at his sides, while his lowered eyes invited her to look where she would.

Fiona knew Michael's body as well as she knew most parts of her own; by sight and by touch, she knew every scar, mole, and freckle, every joint, bone, and curve of muscle. Yet she'd never, in all the years she'd known him, managed to grow tired of the view. She still remembered the first time she'd seen Michael fully naked, in and around a single bed in her dingy rented room above a bicycle shop in Belfast. Then, the unexpected revelation of his smooth, pale skin and hard, graceful curves had taken her breath away. With his clothes on, Michael was handsome, but without them, he was beautiful in the way only certain men can be—carelessly and effortlessly, without really trying, knowing, or caring.

Since that first time, Fiona had imprinted herself on Michael's body in more ways than one. She was personally responsible for at least two visible scars, and had been present for the acquisition of many others. Now, she saw that her imprisonment had also written itself into his flesh; there were new scars, and he was thinner than she'd seen him in years, his skin pulling tight across his already taut stomach and narrow hips. With every second, and every inch, Fiona felt her inability to touch him dissolving in the reality of all the ways she already had.

Eyes climbing Michael's body to his face, Fiona marshaled his gaze. Then she squared her shoulders, and dropped her towel.

Their next kiss was everything the first one hadn't been. Where the first kiss had been brief, and cold, the second was fervid, and endless. As she twisted against Michael's heat, Fiona was assaulted by the smell of his hair and the taste of his skin. While wrestling with his tongue, she missed his neck, and while sucking his neck, she missed his lips. No matter how fast or hard she squeezed and clawed, she couldn't get enough of Michael in her hands, or feel enough of him against her skin. Michael was just as desperate, testing a dozen different handholds as he ground his chest against her breasts and unleashed a smattering of needful sounds—breathy sighs that warmed her cheeks and deeper groans that rumbled under her lips and hands. Michael had never been a noisy lover, but that made each sound precious, a jewel to be mined, and cherished. Fiona dug her hands into Michael's ribs and imagined reaching inside his body to tear out those sounds, clinching their physical substance against her breast and roughly caressing them with her blunt nails and bruised lips.

Willing to be challenged, she let Michael push her backwards, until she collided with the sink. As she thrilled to the determined press of his body, he gripped her sides, and lifted. Fiona gasped when her feet left the floor, and hissed when she landed on the cool ceramic counter around the sink. She struggled for balance while Michael continued to assault her senses, hands stroking into her thighs as the fine-grained roughness of his freshly shaven cheek teased her throat and breasts. In response, Fiona scratched her fingers through his hair and flung her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into her thighs. Michael's lips trembled on a stifled groan as she seized his ass and put where she wanted him, which was also where she needed him.

For a moment, Fiona forgot to breathe. But as Michael started to move inside her, it all came back—her breath, and her body. Dizzy with the fullness of her lungs and the thundering strength of her heart, Fiona hooked her feet under Michael's thighs, lips wrenching out a moan as she begged for more.

Michael grunted as he fought for leverage, his palm slapping the mirror behind her head. Fiona fought back, throwing an arm behind and a leg ahead, suddenly grateful for the closeness of the walls. Again and again, she pushed and kicked herself into Michael's thrusts, hips lifting off the counter before Michael slammed them down, his right hand squealing against the mirror while his left scrabbled for purchase in her flesh. With each wave they almost toppled, but Fiona didn't care; she was lost and careless and giddy in her carelessness, mind and body contracting around the only thing that mattered.

She wailed with relief as the ultimate wave of pleasure shot up her spine and exploded behind her eyelids; she was still shuddering helplessly when Michael's own explosion sent her careening into the sink, jamming her tailbone into the tap and knocking her skull against the mirror.

A moment after gasping his release, Michael gathered her into a heavy embrace. Fiona's giddiness surged again as she accepted Michael's weight, gripping his shoulder blades and burying her face in his limp neck. She wanted to cry grateful tears or erupt in delirious laughter, but she lacked the energy to be anything besides spent and liquid in her lover's arms.

They were still entwined when the phone rang, vibrating through the wet tangle of Michael's discarded clothes. Michael lifted his head from her shoulder and stared at the sound, clearly reluctant to leave his home between her thighs. Fiona pushed gently on his shoulders to make him act, knowing the call might be important.

With a silent, regretful sigh, Michael pulled himself free of her body and went to dig his surprisingly durable phone out of his pants. He stood up again as he answered the call.

"Yeah, Sam… We're at the loft now… Great—we'll be ready."

Michael hung up, realized he didn't have any pockets, and stumbled back toward the counter, depositing his phone on the back of the toilet as he went. Fiona was sure that he'd reach for a towel, or kiss her quickly before leaving the bathroom to find fresh clothes. But instead, he dropped his shoulders into the corner where the sink met the wall, his right arm pressing lightly but deliberately against hers.

"Sam get lost?" she asked.

"Says he'll be here in ten," Michael replied. His eyebrows puckered as his eyes flashed from her waist to her head. "Sorry about…"

Fiona touched the back of her skull; there was a bruise forming there, but no other damage.

"No harm done," she assured him, hand moving from her head to her lower back. "But I hope I won't be doing a lot of sitting for the next few days."

Michael pursued his lips, but ultimately declined the challenge of her intentionally loaded words.

"And besides," she added, in a more serious tone, "I hurt you first."

"It doesn't—"

"Yes," she insisted. "It does matter. And I'm sorry."

Michael's eyes dropped to the space between their bodies.

"You don't have to be sorry about anything," he said. "Not now. Not ever."

"Because I'm perfect now?" she scoffed.

"Because I love you."

He spoke the words quietly, but without hesitation—like it was something he'd said a thousand times, and planned to say a thousand more. Fiona felt the blood drain from her face to join her suddenly deafening heartbeat. The sensation was strange, and almost sickening; she gripped the counter to anchor herself, eyes concentrating on the hollow of Michael's ribs.

"I love you too, Michael."

She'd spoken the words before, but never without a pane of glass between them. When the walls didn't close in and the world didn't end, her heart began to calm, her fingers gradually loosened on the ledge.

Once the blood had returned to her cheeks, she asked, "Is there going to be a funeral?"

"It's on Saturday," Michael confirmed. "Sam, Jesse, and I have been calling people—old friends, mostly, and some family."

"Is Ruth coming?"

She watched Michael's lungs fill and deflate as he released a weary breath. "I've left three messages. I know the FBI contacted her, too. But I haven't heard anything back."

Fiona nodded slowly, deciding to let that particular topic rest. "So you have other family in Florida?" she wondered.

"In Florida, and in Georgia."

"And you're going to the service?"

"Yeah… I'm really looking forward to explaining to my nosy aunts where I've been for the past two-and-a-half decades."

The humour in Michael's voice was dark, and decidedly modest. But Fiona found it encouraging, nonetheless; under the circumstances, the fact that Michael could still access his customary sarcasm seemed like a good sign.

"You have _aunts_?" she questioned. "Plural?"

"One aunt, and one great aunt."

"Uncles?"

"No uncles—not anymore."

"Why haven't we talked about this before?"

"I didn't plan to see most of these people again, so…"

Fiona bit her cheek, wondering, not for the first time, about Michael's idea of family; she could understand him rejecting his father, but it was a whole other matter to reject an entire clan. There was so much anger in a gesture like that, or maybe it was fear; when it came to his family, Fiona wasn't sure if Michael understood his motivations any better than she did.

"I wish I could say it gets better," she said softly, eyes lingering on the thin trail of dark hair running down the centre of Michael's chest to his belly button. "But I still miss my sister. I always will."

Michael's jaw tightened as he offered a small, barely perceptible nod.

"How's your mom taking it?" she asked.

"We haven't talked. I keep calling, but she won't…"

"She doesn't blame you, Michael."

"You can't…" he trailed off, flexing his right hand where it curled over the counter. "There are some things you don't understand. My mom—"

"She'll blame herself."

She finally looked up, and met Michael's eyes.

"In some ways," she told him, "you're more alike than you think."

She let her words hang in the warm, humid air, and Michael did the same.

Fiona could have said more. She could have tried to explain her furious terror at the walls, and the raw memory of Claire's death. Or she could have told him how badly she'd missed him—how her body hadn't felt like her own until she'd been reunited with her missing piece. But, balanced on the sink counter with Michael's naked body leaning against hers, she was suddenly sure he already understood.

Michael's next words confirmed as much. With practiced nonchalance, he asked, "Do you want a yogurt?"

Fiona swallowed before she nodded. "More than anything in the world."

They didn't wander more than a few feet from each other's orbit as they cleaned up, left the bathroom, and got dressed, Michael in a fresh pair of slacks and a white dress shirt, she in bootcut jeans and a green linen blouse.

They were both most of the way through their yogurts, sitting next to each other at the kitchen table facing the door, when Sam finally arrived, a black laptop tucked under his arm.

"Musta been some kinda mix-up on the freeway..." said Sam, wiping a trail of sweat from his forehead as he dropped the computer onto the table. "The ramp was blocked for at least half an hour."

Fiona exchanged a look with Michael, confirming they both knew Sam was lying. It would have taken more than an accident on the freeway to make Sam as late as he was, and the traffic had been normal for their own drive. But it was a thoughtful lie, covering a thoughtful gesture; sometimes, Sam was also very good at understanding what they needed.

"So what've you got?" Michael asked, climbing down from his stool and circling the table to view the laptop screen over Sam's shoulder.

"Not much… I've been tryin' to dig up some contacts in Atlantic City, but the pickings are slim…"

Fiona listened with half an ear. The sun was streaming in through the old industrial windows, infusing the kitchen with a warm yellow glow. It was a familiar scene. Fiona couldn't begin to count how many times the three of them had gathered around the makeshift slatted table, eating, drinking, and thinking up new ways to take the good fight to the bad guys, activities that fit very well into her own conception of family. Fiona felt her lips curve into a small smile as she watched Michael's brow furrow with concentration below his sparkling eyes. Planning a new mission never failed to excite him, even—or especially—when that mission was personal, and when it faced seemingly impossible odds.

Yet the scene was also a bit too familiar. As she sat on the opposite side of the table and watched Sam and Michael discuss things like FBI contacts and agency resources, Fiona began to experience another moment of disorientation. It could have been two months ago, or four years ago; there was no way to be sure.

Still looking at the computer screen, Michael reached a hand across the table, and touched her forearm with his fingers. It was a casual gesture, conveying only that Michael liked to be near her, and wanted her to know it. But in its casualness, Michael's touch told Fiona exactly where and when she was.

"What do you think, Fi?"

Fiona looked into Michael's wary yet hopeful eyes, and asked, "Does that mean I'm not sitting this out?"

Michael eyes flickered toward Sam, then back to her.

"We could use your help," he said earnestly.

"Then I think we're going to need more guns," she replied.

Michael's lips twitched. It wasn't quite a smile. But sometimes, the small victories are the sweetest.

**~END~ **(for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** This was a tough one for me to wrap my head around, but I enjoyed the challenge :)

That Fiona was in prison for two months is really just a wild guess on my part, as I find the passage of time in Burn Notice to be fairly perplexing; in "Reunion" alone, the trip from the prison to the beach doesn't make any kind of sense, time-wise. But if anyone remembers the time period being mentioned specifically on the show, please let me know!


	6. Better Halves

**Set during "Better Halves," Season 5, Episode 11 (it starts halfway through the episode, during the dinner scene where Michael pitches Kevin)**

* * *

"You have five seconds."

Michael maintained a toothy smile as he scraped the steak knife along the edge of his fork, his gaze focused on the wet, frightened eyes of Kevin Skyler, aka Cheshire, aka the American bioweapons engineer he and Fiona had been sent to extract from the Copa de Oro couples retreat in Puerto La Cruz, Venezuela. Kevin glanced nervously at his wife, Nikki, before glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the couple registered as Serge and Karina, aka the Russian bodyguards employed as Kevin and Nikki's protectors. Sensing trouble in the nervous energy accompanying the use of low voices, Serge and Karina had risen from their table in the corner and were currently making their way across the dining room, their already dour faces becoming unmistakably grim.

"Kevin," Nikki whispered urgently, hands tightening around her cloth napkin. "_Please_."

Michael saw a Makarov edge its way out of Karina's handbag while Serge reached into the hollow of his back. Testing his grip on his own improvised weapon, Michael evaluated his tactical options; thrown properly, the knife could momentarily take out Karina, giving Fiona an opening to retrieve the Beretta strapped to her thigh beneath her cocktail dress. Fiona would enjoy that plan; Michael could feel her gun leg tense against him under the table, and could practically taste the eager adrenaline on her close breath.

"Fine," Kevin hissed. "I'm in."

"Laugh," Fiona ordered. "Now. As loud as you can."

She immediately obeyed her own command, mouth opening wide to unleash a boisterous, echoing laugh. Michael joined her, and Kevin and Nikki did their best to follow along.

"Now you know why I make him tell all his stories in his inside voice!" Fiona enthused, loud enough for Serge and Karina to hear. "You are _so_ bad."

Michael smiled a faux apology as he watched Serge and Karina back away, and return to their seats.

"To new friends," said Fiona, lifting high her glass of rosé.

"New friends," Michael agreed, raising his glass to meet Fiona's and the more reluctant glasses of Kevin and Nikki.

For the sake of appearances, Michael and Fiona kept Kevin and Nikki at the table as long as possible, maintaining a steady stream of inane dialogue in their guises of Brenden and Christina Jenson. According to the dossier prepared by the CIA, Brenden and Christina were descendants of old money New England families who were currently pursuing the typical jobs and hobbies of the idle rich; Brendan was a hereditary board of directors type who dabbled in travel writing, while Christina was a former model and ostensible jewelry designer. As Brenden and Christina, Michael and Fiona complained about the New York real estate market and compared the Copa de Oro to other vacation spots in the Caribbean, Italy, and the south of France. For Michael, producing large quantities of fake, meaningless conversation was a virtually effortless task; he'd always been gifted with words, as long as those words were lies.

It took approximately fifteen minutes for the risks of keeping Kevin and Nikki at the table to outweigh the rewards. While Fiona concocted a winding and impressively detailed story about her months-long battle with a duplicitous maid, Kevin was visibly sweating, and no longer even pretending to nod in the right places. Nikki, for her part, had become almost zombie-like, her small, giddy smile frozen in place below her increasingly glassy eyes.

In Brenden's slightly nasal accent, Michael gave Kevin the out he so badly wanted. "You look just about done, Kev. Must be the heat."

Kevin swallowed, and offered a stiff nod. "Must be."

"Why don't you and Nikki call it a night? Christina and I can meet up with you again tomorrow—say around 10? By the pool?"

"Sure," Kevin managed, pushing his chair away from the table. "Sounds good."

Michael and Fiona remained at the table as they watched Kevin and Nikki make their way a bit too quickly through the dining room toward the main lobby, followed, not especially discretely, by Serge and Karina.

"Do you think they're really married?" Fiona asked, keeping her voice low.

"Kevin and Nikki?" Michael asked.

"No—Serge and Karina."

Michael eyed the Russian operatives as they rounded the corner and then disappeared from view. It was difficult to imagine either of them being married to anyone. Yet if they were going to partner off, it might as well be with each other.

"I honestly have no idea," he said.

Fiona downed her last swallow of wine. "I suppose you'll want to go back upstairs and see how our new friends felt about the evening's entertainment."

"I do, but I also don't want to follow too closely—in case Serge and Karina start asking around."

"So what did you have in mind?"

Michael flashed his Brenden smile as he suggested, in a louder voice, "How about another drink?"

"At the bar?"

Michael resumed a low tone to reply, "Plenty of witnesses, at least three exits, and lots of potential incendiaries."

Fiona gazed up at him from under the fringe of her coquettishly lowered eyelids. "_That's_ the man I married."

Michael stood, and offered his hand. "Shall we?"

Playing the role of a proud and dutiful wife, Fiona held the arm of Michael's cream-coloured seersucker suit as he led the way through the dining room to the bar. It was darker in the bar than the dining room, but the style was similar. Like the rest of the hotel, the bar was actually from the colonial era, but had been renovated to look "contemporary," then renovated again in an effort to restore its colonial glory. The end result was somewhat uncanny—like being inside a too-clean version of the past, where everyone was a wealthy adventurer, but without any of the messiness that conquering the jungle usually entailed.

At they waited for the bartender at the dark counter in front of a glittering wall of alcohol, Michael took a moment to survey the scene. The bar was only half-full, but buzzing with the energy of people who'd drunk enough to be talkative. The guests were mostly clustered around the room's smattering of booths and tables, many of them holding brightly coloured cocktails decorated with tiny umbrellas, limes, and wedges of pineapple. To Michael's eyes, the brightest drinks seemed to belong to the dimmest faces, which in turn seemed to belong to those couples who were his own age or older; at least two such couples were staring at the bar's younger, louder couples with expressions that were either envious or mournful.

Michael remembered most of the faces in the bar from his hack of the hotel registry. Out of habit, he quickly starting matching faces to names, occupations, and countries of origin.

"Relax."

He glanced at Fiona, and knew she was right; as he'd concentrated, his back had stiffened, and his smile had fallen. For a moment, he hadn't been Brenden Jenson anymore; he'd been himself. Ironically, his ability to drop his cover proved that he was relaxed. Somehow, while still on the job, in a bar filled with couples who were either drunkly happy or darkly miserable, with a wedding ring on his finger and Fiona's warm body resting on his hip, he'd become calm to the point of carelessness.

He reassured Fiona with another flash of Brenden's smile and trailed his fingers down her back, feeling every notch of her spine through the thin fabric of her dress. The gesture felt easy, and familiar. It even felt good, especially when Fiona dropped her weight against his pelvis, and casually twisted.

When he was himself—the self who always put the job first, and certainly wasn't married—Michael had rules about touching Fiona in public, or allowing her to touch him. There were some simple reasons for his rules; he didn't like the distraction or attention that public displays of affection tended to cause. But the reasons he didn't like to be distracted or watched were more complicated, buried deep in his experience and those pockets of his psyche that he couldn't fully grasp outside of dreams and moments of crisis.

He told himself the current press and twist of Fiona's body felt good because of his cover. He liked it because he was supposed to—because it was linked to the job. And in part, that was true. But on this particular mission, and in these particular IDs, the personal and the professional were inescapably blurred. Michael had very little in common with Brenden Jenson. They did, however, share at least one defining interest, in the form of the auburn-haired, hazel-eyed woman at his side, who was currently bobbing subtly up and down to an electronically infused calypso song, everything but the pulsing baseline of which was lost in the louder noise of the room's voices and bodies. And that woman had always been capable of making Michael forget his own name—or whatever name he happened to be using on the day or hour in question.

Michael was acutely aware he'd come dangerously close to forgetting himself the previous evening, when he'd danced with Fiona for the first time since the very first time, more than a decade before. He'd been Brenden Jenson when he'd agreed to dance with her, but he'd ceased being Brenden when Fiona had lifted herself into his arms and wrapped her thigh around his waist, her very red, very high heel reaching up past his shoulder. In that moment, the smile he'd cast into Fiona's close face had been his own, his eyes glinting a challenge she'd been only too happy to accept. Fiona had been spectacular bending and twirling in her reams of crimson silk, and breathtaking when she'd finally come to a rest draped across his bent knee. Holding her there, Michael had badly wanted to kiss her, inflamed as much by her closeness as the recklessness of his desire. He'd felt that recklessness before, but it had been a very long time since he'd acted on it, at least publicly. He hadn't done that since Ireland, after which he'd promised himself, absolutely and definitively, to never again mix the personal and the professional, with Fiona, or anyone else.

Recent events had made that promise increasingly difficult to keep. During the past several months, Fiona had helped him with his CIA work more than once; she'd also moved in with him, at his urging. Both things would have been unimaginable a year before, when they were still fighting regularly about his work, and only sleeping together sporadically, usually in the immediate aftermath of cheating death. Yet old habits die hard, and long-cherished rules die harder. The dance the night before had felt good while it lasted. But the moment he'd felt the hotel's other guests watching them, evaluating their passionate display with various degrees of appreciation and disdain, Michael had been disturbed by what he'd actually and nearly done. Each and every time he'd forgotten himself in the context of his job, the consequences had been severe; on one such occasion, the consequence had been losing Fiona.

It was for Fiona's sake that Michael needed the current mission to be not only successful, but unimpeachable—perfectly planned, executed, and by-the-book. If it wasn't, Fiona wouldn't be asked back as a CIA asset, which would mean more arguing about his work, and eventually, a re-staging of the same impossible choice he'd faced back in Ireland, when he'd been forced to flee her Dublin flat in the middle of the night, never to return. And so, after the dance floor and the escape from Kevin and Nikki's room, Michael had fallen back on his well-worn strategy of preserving Fiona by pushing her away, rejecting her invitation to share a whirlpool bath in favour of constructing an immaculate report on the day's activities.

Finally, the bartender arrived, and Michael ordered what he thought Christina and Brenden would drink: Tanqueray and tonic for her, Johnnie Walker on the rocks for himself.

The bartender was still pouring their drinks when a cloud of boozy breath assaulted Michael's cheek, followed by a male arm landing heavily on his shoulders. Restraining an instinctual urge to violently extricate himself from the intruder's grip, Michael turned to confront a man he immediately recognized as Jason Wainthrop, aka one half of one of the couples that he and Fiona had been scouting the night before. His girlfriend, Rebecca, was close at hand, flashing a grin that was almost as bright as the diamonds studding her ears and neck. Jason, with his short dark hair and narrow build, looked something like a younger version of himself. Yet Rebecca looked nothing like Fiona; tall, blonde, and generically beautiful, she was younger than Jason, but trying, through her excessive jewelry and heavy makeup, to look older—or, as she likely saw it, more "sophisticated." Michael guessed that Jason hailed from a rich family and Rebecca was trying to join that family, as quickly and securely as possible.

"I'm buying!" Jason declared loudly, speaking directly into Michael's ear. Still holding Michael's shoulders, he turned to the rest of the bar to exclaim, "Drinks are on me! It's not every day you get engaged!"

There was a smattering of applause and cheers as the crowd absorbed the meaning of Jason's words.

"Congratulations," Michael offered, infusing the word with as much enthusiasm as he could muster while counting down the seconds until he could reasonably start fighting his way out of the younger man's embrace.

"You guys gotta have a drink with us," Jason insisted, gesturing clumsily to his fiancée, who was still standing and smiling attentively behind him. "You need to show us the ropes of this whole marriage thing. I swear, you guys look like the only happy couple here."

"Besides us of course!" Rebecca added brightly.

Michael exchanged a look with Fiona, his face wearing an expression he'd perfected—smiling at the front, while gritting his teeth at the back. Celebrating Jason and Rebecca's engagement wasn't high on his list preferred activities, but he also knew they couldn't afford to refuse the invitation.

Fiona's own smile was flawless as she pronounced, "Shall we get a table?"

Michael and Fiona collected their drinks and repaired to a circular both; Jason and Rebecca met them there a moment later, followed by a waiter carrying a freshly opened bottle of Dom. Jason performed introductions as the waiter poured champagne for himself and Rebecca, unaware that Michael and Fiona didn't need to be introduced.

"I'm Jason, and this is Rebecca—my _fiancée_."

Rebecca's cheeks darkened with appreciation at Jason's intonation, her interestingly naked left hand springing to her chest.

"I'm Brenden," Michael returned, "and this is my wife, Christina."

"After last night," said Rebecca, "I feel like we've already met. Anytime I wasn't lost in Jason's eyes, I was looking at the two of you—I think everyone was."

Michael exchanged another look with Fiona, his smile getting tighter while hers fairly beamed.

"I'm _sure_ you're exaggerating," Fiona scoffed.

"You looked like a couple of _movie stars_," Rebecca gushed, undeterred.

"So, Jason," Michael began, eager to redirect the conversation, even if it meant feigning interest in the couple's impending marriage. "How'd you pop the question?"

Jason took his time swallowing, eyes wandering sideways. "Well, I didn't quite—"

"He needed a bit of encouragement," Rebecca interrupted, smiling more widely than ever.

That explained Rebecca's naked left hand. Visions of Samantha flitted quickly through Michael's mind, but were thankfully batted away by the glass Fiona thrust into his field of vision.

"A toast!" Fiona exclaimed. "To the happy couple."

Following the toast, the conversation turned toward more benign topics, including some of the same trials of the idle rich they'd discussed with Kevin and Nikki. Thankfully, though, Jason and Rebecca were more animated conversationalists than Kevin and Nikki had been. That allowed Michael to listen with half an ear, mind wandering as he watched and catalogued all the large and small signs of discord between the supposedly happy couple. He noted Jason's too-eager consumption of his champagne, and the tiny hitch in Rebecca's smile whenever she was embarrassed by Jason's jokes.

For a while, Michael was comforted by the discord, which reassured him of his own beliefs about marriage. But by the time he and Fiona had finished their drinks and had them replaced with flutes of champagne, he was increasingly distracted by a far more captivating spectacle: Fiona, in her impressive performance as Christina Jenson. She was sitting across from him at the round table, talking and laughing close to Rebecca's powered cheek, her champagne flute dangling from her fingers with seeming negligence and actual skill.

Fiona had never been the natural liar that he was. Whenever possible, she preferred the direct approach. Fiona liked to say what she meant and take what she wanted—to go in and out guns blazing. But when she did commit to a cover ID, she was routinely brilliant. Her performance as Christina Jenson was no exception. Fiona had been responsible for most of their success so far, and Michael had loved every minute of it. Watching her on the dance floor, by the pool, at the dinner table, and now, sipping champagne between eruptions of audacious laughter, he was deep in the thrall of her performance, loving the way she reeled in and massaged the hapless marks, seducing them with her real warmth and false frivolity. Fiona was completely, beautifully in control, and he was the only one who knew it—the only person who could see through her performance to the heart of her.

Michael found himself remembering the first time he'd watched Fiona, in another, very different bar, so many years ago. Then, too, he'd been enthralled by her performance as she'd knocked back whiskey with a revolver tucked in her skin-tight jeans, and made a whole room of men both want and fear her. Then, her performance had reminded him of himself. Not the self he was, but the one he sometimes wanted to be—someone who could take joy and pride in their skills and passions, and not be ashamed of that joy in the light of day.

Fiona sensed his gaze and greeted it across the table, hazel eyes dark and sparkling above the fizz and pop of her champagne. As she met his eyes, Michael smiled. Not his Brenden Jenson smile, but his real smile—the one he rarely used, but liked himself when he did. In response, Fiona's own Christina Jenson smile transformed into something subtler, and more intimate, becoming knowing, rather than broad. Michael felt the warmth of her smile on his skin, competing with the warmth of the wine, whiskey, and champagne. There was plenty to regret about the long months he'd once spent sleeping in Fiona's bed while pretending to be someone else. But there was at least one happy consequence of that experience; afterwards, Fiona could always tell his real smile from his fake one.

"So how long have you guys been hitched?"

Michael turned toward the intrusion of Jason's voice. "Seven wonderful years," he answered easily, reciting from the dossier.

"How did you meet?" asked Rebecca.

"At a bar," Fiona replied. "He asked me to dance."

That part wasn't from the dossier.

"Oooohhh…" Rebecca cooed. "How _romantic_."

"And how long did it take?" Jason asked, directing the question at Michael.

At Michael's slight hesitation, Rebecca added, "When did you know she was _the one_?"

Michael glanced from Rebecca to Jason, then returned his gaze to Fiona. Her warmth seemed closer than the noise of the bar or Jason's boozy breath. The past also seemed very near, and very warm; the recent memory of Fiona's thigh clutching his chest amid a swath of crimson silk merged with a much older memory, in which he knew he should be worried about the snub-nosed revolver pressed in his midsection, but wasn't.

Michael said, "I knew it the first time we danced."

Fiona's sparkling eyes blinked clear a moment before Michael was forced to part with them, starting as Jason slapped him vigorously on the back.

"You slick-tongued bastard," Jason congratulated. "Guess that's the secret to making it work, huh? You gotta know the right lines."

Michael flashed his teeth at the supposed compliment; it was a protective gesture, concealing a flush of embarrassment.

"Isn't that what every woman wants?" Fiona chimed in. "We all deserve a smooth liar."

Jason laughed while Rebecca giddily sputtered her champagne; Fiona laughed too, loudly and recklessly. Michael forced himself to join their mirth while struggling to gauge the seriousness of Fiona's words. Suddenly, he was on the wrong side of her performance, helpless and blind in the company of the other marks. In a heartbeat, his embarrassment became regret, which in turn became anger, directed at himself. It was another familiar feeling, attending a far too familiar mistake. It wasn't the first time he'd been honest about the wrong things at the wrong moment, with little chance of being believed for reasons that were entirely his own fault.

The conversation continued, but Michael was progressively disengaged. Moment by moment, he retreated further and further into his training, walling off the tactical threat of his emotions. He kept smiling, talking, and sipping champagne, but he no longer enjoyed the performance, his appearance of happiness becoming coolly professional. As he pretended to appreciate Jason's ingenuity in setting up a shell company to write off property taxes on his family's summer home in the Hamptons, he was running through a checklist of the things he'd need to do when he returned to the suite. First, he'd need to check the seals around each of the seven windows. Then, he'd need to check each of the twelve electrical outlets for tampering, followed by the two hotel phones and each piece of his own equipment, not to mention the nine lamp shades, three tables, two closets... After that, he'd need to listen to whatever he'd recorded from the bug in Kevin and Nikki's room, and finally summarize everything for his daily report.

When the champagne stopped flowing, Jason and Rebecca excused themselves to find a refill, only to be swept up by another gaggle of guests. Michael remained where he was as Fiona slipped around the table to rejoin him. Her hip once more touched his, but lightly, with a gentle pressure that somehow bothered him more than the heavy press of her body from an hour before.

"This might be a good time for a strategic retreat," Fiona suggested.

Michael nodded, and led the way. Decades of practice allowed him to smile cordially at the other guests and the deferential hotel employees as he and Fiona wove their way through the bar to the bank of elevators off the lobby. Fiona held his arm throughout the journey, but Michael barely noticed, no longer willing to court the distraction of her touch.

When they reached their 10th floor suite, Fiona entered first. Michael locked and dead-bolted the door after them, then turned to Fiona, preparing to remind her of the work that needed to be done before he could call it a day. But Fiona didn't need reminding; she was already heading into the bedroom to check their bags. Michael tried to be grateful for Fiona's unusual adherence to protocol, but part of him was disappointed; when the soft folds of her dress slipped through his fingers, he found himself missing the warmth he'd willed himself to ignore.

Michael kept one eye on Fiona as they worked, appreciating her thoroughness and skill as she reached up to run her hands along the window ledges, and crouched low to check under the tables. He also appreciated the movement of her body inside her dress. Since returning to the privacy of the suite, he'd gotten tighter, while Fiona had gotten looser; as she moved through the suite, her spine swung freely and languorously, her wavy hair bouncing on her bare shoulders.

At last, they shared a nod, confirming the room was clean. With a long, weary sigh, Fiona collapsed heavily into the long sofa facing the dormant marble fireplace, kicking her platform wedges up over the armrest. Michael dropped his white jacket on a chair before landing on the opposite sofa and opening the laptop on the glass coffee table between them. The bug in Kevin and Nikki's room was still transmitting, but it was currently silent. Michael backed up the recording to just after they'd left the dining room, and played it over the computer's speakers.

After a shuffle of feet and the thud of a closing door, Serge's Russian-accented voice asked, "Who are your new friends?"

"They're nobody," Kevin replied. "Some travel writer and his wife. The wife shared some champagne with Nikki at the pool, so we bought them dinner."

There was a long pause, as Serge and Karina evaluated Kevin's explanation. Karina broke the silence to say, "We must search the room."

"Go ahead," said Kevin.

When the search was over, Serge's voice returned. "Be careful of your new friends," he warned. "Spies can take many forms."

"Spies?" Kevin scoffed. "At a couples' retreat?"

Serge and Karina didn't respond; a few moments later, the sound of the door opening and closing signaled the Russians' departure.

Once Serge and Karina were gone, Kevin's tension fairly exploded. "What the fuck was that?!"

"I don't—" Nikki started.

"You could have backed me up," Kevin interrupted. "But you just sat there and made me clean up your mess—like you always do."

"_My_ mess?" Nikki shot back. "Christina and Brenden are going to get us _out_ of the mess _you_ made."

"And how are they gonna do that, huh? Magic?"

"I trust them," Nikki insisted.

"Oh, well, that makes _all_ the difference…"

The couples' heated exchange continued, though they moved swiftly onto seemingly unrelated topics; Nikki seemed to think that Kevin's poor judgement had something to do with his first wife, while Kevin thought that Nikki's too-easy trust had something to do with her father.

Fiona expelled another sigh. "This show is getting repetitive."

"It could use some better writing," Michael agreed.

"Are you going to keep listening?"

"I have to. For the report."

Fiona nodded slowly as she pushed herself upright. "Do you need help?"

"Are you offering to do paperwork?"

Fiona gave a small, nonchalant shrug. "If it means you joining me in bed before dawn."

Michael looked at her. Her strapless dress hung dangerously low on her breasts, and her lipstick had faded to a stain on her lips.

"I can manage," he said. "I know how they want these things to sound."

He experienced another pang of disappointment at Fiona's easy acceptance of his parry.

"Okay," she agreed, rising to her feet. "I'm going to have a shower, and call it a night."

"Sure," he replied.

After Fiona disappeared into the bedroom, Michael did his best to get comfortable. He wanted to change out of his Brenden Jenson clothes, but rejected the idea, concerned it might reveal too much about his mental state. Instead, he tried to make Brenden's clothes more his own, kicking off his white loafers and pink socks, and rolling up the sleeves of his orange and grey striped shirt.

When the conversation from Kevin and Nikki's room became sporadic, he turned his attention to his report, recording their progress and fleshing out his profile of Kevin and Nikki.

Hie paused when he heard the start of the shower in the bedroom's ensuite bath. Michael knew it was a fabulous shower. It had a waterfall head with multiple, adjustable side jets, enclosed by clear glass walls that frosted with heat, turning showering bodies into dark silhouettes. Concentrating, he could hear the subtle disruption of the water as Fiona stepped under it, followed by the varying hiss of the jets as they caressed her shifting body. The sounds got louder the longer he listened, echoing in his wandering mind. The same thing had happened the night before, after he'd declined Fiona's invitation to the bath. Then, each drip and slosh of Fiona's body in the tub had sent Kevin and Nikki's voices fading further into the distance and stiffened his hand against the inseam of his black tuxedo pants, his fingers at once heavy and too far away.

Michael didn't realize how intensely he was listening to Fiona's shower until Nikki's voice returned to the tape, and he started at its sudden loudness.

"Keeevin…" Nikki crooned.

"What is it, Nikki?" Kevin replied brusquely.

"Come to _bed_, Kevin…"

"Nikki, I'm busy."

From the bedroom of his own suite, Michael heard the shower shut off, followed by a shuffle of movement that was Fiona reaching for a towel. There was a competing shuffle on the tape, as Nikki stepped up her seduction. In his mind's eye, Michael could see Nikki climbing onto the couch next to her husband; there, she'd kiss his cheek, or perhaps run her hands over the contours of his chest, much like Fiona had done to him the night before.

"Nikki," Kevin protested. "Please. I have work to do."

Kevin's rejection was angry, and forceful. It was also effective; within seconds, the tape picked up the sound of Nikki slamming the bedroom door. A few seconds after that, the bedroom light clicked off over Michael's own shoulder.

Michael noted the exchange in his report; details of Nikki and Kevin's marital strife could be useful, though that strife was also, like Jason and Rebecca's discord from earlier in the night, boringly typical. Michael had overheard versions of the same fight many times before, both on the job and before it, through the too-thin walls of his childhood bedroom. Yet in the house he'd grown up in, the discord had usually taken the opposite form; then, it had been his father wanting more, while his mother bent over backwards just trying to stay out of his way.

Michael leaned back, massaging his eyes against the beginning of a headache that was aggravated by the evening's unholy mixture of alcohols and the too-bright, too-close computer screen. As he lowered his hands, he stared for the second time in as many days at the gold wedding band on his finger, wondering at its strange power. He and Samantha had never exchanged rings. At the time, he'd used work as an excuse, engagement rings being impractical accessories for spies and thieves. In retrospect, though, Michael knew work wasn't the only reason he'd declined to wear a ring. Michael had liked Samantha; for a time, he'd even thought he loved her. But Fiona wasn't the first beautiful, reckless woman he'd sometimes struggled to read. When Samantha had proposed, he'd actually thought she was joking. The reality had dawned on him slowly, and guiltily; eventually, he'd realized Samantha had mistaken him for someone else.

From his fake wedding ring, Michael looked toward the darkened door of the suite's bedroom. He rubbed his neck as he shifted in his seat, trying, and failing, to ignore the fact that his head wasn't the only part of his body that ached. Fiona had been asleep when he'd joined her in bed the night before, breathing deeply against the luxurious white pillows. She hadn't stirred when he'd pressed his naked chest against her back, or even when he'd tucked his hand under her breasts, lips tickling her bare shoulder. The next morning, Fiona had risen before him, and they'd showered separately.

In the silence of the suite, Michael faced the computer screen and the difficult truth that in the very moment he was supposed to be making plans, he had no idea what he was doing, or why. Part of him—the same part that had been dominant when he'd asked Fiona to move into the loft—knew that distancing himself from Fiona rarely made anything better. At the moment, the ache of her distance was actually keeping him from his work. It was also threatening to fulfill one of his worst fears—to turn him into a Jason Wainthrop or Kevin Skyler.

With sudden determination, Michael muted the laptop, and got to his feet, heading in the direction of the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, watching. Fiona was curled into the upper left corner of the king-size bed, reading the latest copy of _SWAT _magazine under a lamp on the side table. Her face was bare, but her hair was dry, spilling over her shoulders and the edge of the duvet. Something about the relative domesticity of the scene aggravated Michael's already anxious thoughts; he was suddenly intensely nostalgic for the version of Fiona's he'd once spent so much effort rejecting, the one who'd rarely taken no for an answer.

"Fi."

At the sound of his voice, Fiona looked up from her magazine, arching an expectant, slightly suspicious eyebrow.

"Yes, Michael?"

"I need your help with something."

"With work?"

"No."

Her suspicion dissolved into a close-lipped smile as she said, "I thought you'd never ask."

In one motion, Fiona dropped her magazine and threw back both the bed sheets and the heavy white duvet. Michael released a small, relieved sigh, and returned her smile. Absent the sheets and the duvet, Fiona was completely naked.

Michael closed the distance slowly, savouring the view. In the past, he'd been with women who'd seemed embarrassed of their own anatomy, who hadn't wanted certain body parts to be seen until they had to be, and even then, only under the cover of darkness or the protection of blankets. Fiona had never been like that. As always, Fiona was shameless and beautiful in that shamelessness, letting her breasts loll and her thighs hang open.

When he stepped into her pool of light, he paused again, contemplating their contrasting states of undress and the best way to breach the impasse. Abruptly, Fiona kicked her legs over the side of the bed to sit facing him, her bare breasts level with his hips. She didn't touch him, because she didn't need to; her roving eyes dissolved the standoff, reminding him, in no uncertain terms, that he was always already naked under her gaze.

Michael unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it toward the chair. But when he moved on to his pants, Fiona covered his hands with hers.

"Allow me."

Michael looked down at his own body as Fiona ran a delicate finger along his belt. She slid the leather smoothly out of the loops before jerking open the buckle, pulling him deeper into her hands. He continued to watch her hands as she opened his pants and lifted them over his hips, accompanied by his boxers. Then he watched her reach between his legs and indulge her own fantasies, fondling his balls while threatening to squeeze. Finally, he watched through flickering eyelids as she handled him in earnest—roughly and thoroughly, in between flashes of frustrating, intoxicating tenderness.

He swallowed the sound he wanted to make and flexed his hands at his sides, pondering the closeness of Fiona's wet, idle mouth. Part of him wondered what would happen if he seized the back of her head and put himself there—whether Fiona would accept his need or punish it, and what form those things would take. But Michael also knew, with as much certainty as he'd ever known anything, that if he truly wanted to challenge her control, force wasn't the answer; Fiona Glenanne would only really surrender to one person, and that person was herself.

Michael freed himself by dropping to his knees at Fiona's feet. From between her thighs, he looked up, meeting her gaze above the pert curves of her breasts. Still meeting her eyes, he wet his lips and watched her fight not to crumble, nostrils flaring as her jaw clenched. Her stiff mouth trembled when he slid his hands up her thighs, and dropped open when he massaged the perfect handfuls of her breasts, thumbs circling to the hard spires of her nipples. When his hands slid down her back to pull her tight against his mouth, he was rewarded with the only piece of sex talk he routinely craved.

"_Michael_."

It was the last coherent thing she'd say for some time.

Fiona moaned and writhed as he nipped and licked her, teasing her before beginning a rhythm. Then she spoke through her body, fingers scraping through his hair to mark her pleasure against his skull. At last, even her hands were beyond her control; with another gasping moan, she threw her arms behind her, fingers twisting in the sheets as she held him with her legs, toes clenching down his ribs to his ass.

Warmth surged through his own body as she came unglued, his skin shivering in sympathy with the shudder of her thighs. He was still swollen with pleasure and pride when she pulled her legs back and lashed out, kicking him squarely in the chest.

The kick surprised him more than it hurt. But he still coughed as he lost his balance, landing on his shoulder before rolling onto his back. Within a moment, Fiona was on him, her still-pulsing thighs contracting around his own. It was a position Michael had always liked, but Fiona had made him love; he loved to watch her take and lose control, swaying and moaning in her moment of triumph. But it wasn't what he wanted—not now. Now, aching against Fiona's weight, Michael wanted something simpler—to be grounded as deeply as possible inside her reckless, shameless body.

As she leaned down to kiss him, he knocked out her arms at the elbow, then used his legs to flip her. Fiona hissed as she fell, but when he pinned her, her eyes gleamed. And when he kissed her, she opened her mouth wide, unafraid to taste herself on his lips and tongue. Impatient and too nearly desperate, Michael pulled back quickly, straddling her on his knees. Then he dipped his hands under her thighs, and lifted. Realizing his goal, Fiona's eyes gleamed brighter. Her taut legs sliced upwards, ankles locking behind his neck as his shoulders slid under her calves.

Michael held her cheek as their bodies came together, feeling her jaw yawn beneath his palm. His grip and gaze faltered when Fiona's calves closed like a vise around his neck. He sputtered and almost fell, hands grasping for the carpet. Bracing himself on either side of Fiona's shoulders, he met the power of her legs and dove deeper, stretching her thighs further and further into the liquid motion of her flattened breasts. All the while, Fiona climbed and hung from the scaffolding of his body, fingers clutching his arms while her legs continued to wrench his neck, pulling him down as she threw herself up. Michael struggled to breathe until it no longer mattered; until he couldn't feel his knees scratching and burning in the thick carpet; until he didn't notice the painful tension of his biceps under her clawing fingers; until he couldn't even hear his balls slapping her ass to the rhythm of her short, breathless cries; until all that mattered was the perfection of belonging inside her pulse.

If he'd had the capacity to care, Michael might have been embarrassed by the desperate sounds that escaped his own lips a moment before his brain was slammed gloriously, stupidly numb. But for once, he didn't care; his sounds dissolved in the echoes of hers, as lost as he was, and just as happy.

Operating on fumes and instinct, he managed to pull back before collapsing in a heavy pile at Fiona's side. There, he closed his eyes against the dim but blinding light, and focused on what was still the only thing in the world that mattered: the panting, trembling closeness of Fiona's warmth.

Fiona's voice vibrated against his shoulder as she said, "An entire suite to play in—and we end up on the floor."

Eyes still closed, Michael smiled a dreamy, lopsided smile. "Because you kicked me."

He could hear and feel a reciprocal smile in Fiona's voice. "Yes I did…"

More heartbeats passed before Michael could convince himself to move. When he finally raised his shoulders to turn onto his side, a brief spasm of pain shot up his back, causing him to wince into the dim light. Fiona shifted to face him. Her cheeks were pink, and a thin strand of hair clung to her damp forehead. She looked happy, and she looked beautiful. But there was something else—something mysterious—in the way her hazel eyes flickered under the fringe of her lashes.

Michael reached across the close distance to smooth her hair from her forehead, amused by the uncharacteristically demure blush that darkened her already flushed cheeks.

"Is something wrong?" he asked softly.

"I was just thinking, we haven't done that since…"

"I know."

"How's your back?"

"Older than the last time we did that."

Fiona uttered a tiny snort of amusement, and kicked him—gently—in the ankle.

Her tone was more serious as she said, "It's been weird, hasn't it—this job."

"Define weird."

"We don't do couple IDs very often."

"You know there's a reason for that."

"Do I?" She raised her eyes to add, "Sometimes, it's hard to read your mind."

She was repeating his words from two days before, when they'd been sitting together on the bed at the loft, preparing to leave for the mission. Michael wanted to respond, but couldn't, still struggling to read his own mind.

Fiona saved him by changing tacks. "At the bar, something Rebecca said reminded me of my mother. The first time she met you, back when I still thought you were…" She paused to swallow, then started again. "After supper, we were in the kitchen doing dishes, and my mother used that same phrase—asked me if you were 'the one.'"

Michael's lingering bliss aided the credibility of his casualness as he asked, "And what did you say?"

"I told her what I always told her," Fiona replied. "To stop trying to marry me off."

Michael offered a small smile, but it was halfhearted; something in her cadence and the shape of her mouth told him she was trying a bit too hard to be funny. But he managed to keep his own voice light as he said, "I had a high school girlfriend who broke up with me because she said I wasn't 'marriage material.'"

"Poor baby," Fiona teased.

"She wasn't wrong."

"And yet, you almost did get married once—to Samantha."

Michael's face fell along with his eyes. "Not really."

"You weren't really engaged?"

"I mean—I didn't really come close to marrying Samantha."

"Because of me?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly?" Fiona echoed, less than pleased.

Michael ground his teeth, frustrated, as he so often was, by the inadequacy of his words when he was trying to tell the truth.

"What I _meant_ was, I don't think it would have worked out. Regardless."

"Why?" she pressed.

The answer to that question was easy. "I didn't want to get married."

"Then why did you get engaged?"

Michael sighed. That question was harder. "I don't know. I guess… I was sort of flattered she asked."

The confession surprised him, in both its ease and obviousness. He'd been struggling for more than a decade with the question of why he'd agreed to marry Samantha, and hadn't expected to solve it lying next to Fiona on a cream coloured carpet wearing nothing but a fake wedding ring.

For a long moment, Fiona looked at him. There were more questions in her eyes. Michael didn't care about the questions; he knew he'd already given the best answer he had to give. But he did care about whether Fiona believed what he'd said; as surely as he'd needed to lose and find himself in her pulse, he needed her to believe him.

Finally, Fiona's lips bent with the ghost of a smile, accompanied by a barely perceptible nod. It wasn't much, but it was enough. As Michael absorbed her subtle affirmation, he released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Fiona broke the moment by gathering her limbs and pushing herself to her feet. "You still have work?"

"A little," he replied, getting up slowly after her.

"I'll help you."

"You don't—"

"I'll help you," she repeated, more forcefully. "Just give me a minute."

Fiona ducked into the ensuite bath, then poked her head out again, long enough to toss him a thick white bathrobe. Michael caught the robe as she closed the door, slipping it on while he walked through the sitting area to the suite's second bathroom. After the bathroom, he returned to his laptop. The bug in Kevin and Nikki's suite was quiet, so he pulled up some maps of the area, wanting to commit to memory the side roads around the resort and the restaurant where Fiona would be taking Nikki for lunch the following afternoon.

He looked up from the screen just in time to see Fiona, clothed in her own white robe, aim a cup of blueberry yogurt in the direction of his head. He caught the yogurt in front of his face and stared at it, blinking. "Where did this come from?"

"I ordered a bunch of them from room service this afternoon," Fiona explained, handing off a plastic spoon as she dropped into the couch cushions next to him. "They cost about $12 each."

"That's gonna look great in my expense report."

"Your bosses should know by now—yogurt's an operational necessity."

Michael conceded a smirk of amusement as he pushed the laptop across the table toward her.

"Here—take a look at the layout around the restaurant. Might come in useful if you run into trouble tomorrow."

"I think I can handle a simple extraction, Michael."

"It's not you I'm worried about. Nikki's a bit…"

"Ditzy?"

"For lack of a better word."

"But she likes _you_ so much…"

"Uh huh."

Michael leaned back in his seat and peeled open his yogurt, hoping she'd drop the subject if he ignored it. Yet dropping the subject very nearly came at the cost of dropping his yogurt, as Fiona suddenly hoisted the laptop into her arms and jutted her legs into his lap.

"Did Nikki and Kevin get up to anything interesting after I left?" she asked.

"Not really," Michael replied, resting his forearms against her bare legs as he proceeded with his thankfully intact yogurt.

"No makeup sex?"

"She tried—he said no."

"Thank god for small miracles."

Fiona's eyes narrowed at the screen as she scrolled through the maps. After a few minutes, she asked, "Have you decided what you're going to do with Kevin?"

"I was thinking of taking him to the steam room."

Fiona's head jerked up. "Wait—you're telling me, you're planning to have a sweaty, half-naked wrestling match with an FSB agent who has the pecs of a Calvin Klein underwear model, and I'm going to be miles away for the entire show?"

Michael started at her blankly as he swallowed his last spoonful of yogurt, unsure whether to be flattered, jealous, or disturbed. "I guess…?"

Fiona shook her head, and returned her attention to the screen. Michael tried to let her comment slide, but his resolve was short-lived. As usual, Fiona knew just how to get a rise out of him.

"Serge's pecs?" he questioned. "Really?"

"They were kinda hard to miss…" Fiona mumbled.

"Like your questionable taste?"

"Campbell wasn't questionable."

"He also wasn't exactly your type."

"And what do you know about my type?"

"Nothing. Apparently."

He looked away, but when he looked back, she was smiling, the same playful, close-lipped smile she'd flashed when she'd thrown off the duvet, and which had gotten him into trouble so many times before—the kind of trouble that was always wonderful before it became anything else. As his own lips twitched, the heel of her foot began tapping lightly against his thigh.

"You were saying?" she prompted. "About my questionable taste...?"

"Maybe I overspoke," he conceded, returning her close-lipped smile.

"And here I thought you were a slick-tongued bastard..."

The remark warmed Michael's face for the second time that day, but in the right way, exorcising the first. All at once, the familiarity of her touch and teasing washed over him, wrapping him in an easy comfort that he let himself enjoy. It felt good to let go—as good as the calmness of knowing exactly who he was.

Later, Michael fell asleep swaddled in a goose down duvet at the centre of a huge bed, smelling lavender bubble bath in Fiona's damp hair.

**~END~ **(for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** Whew—that ended up being longer than anticipated! But I'm sure you guys probably don't mind ;) Just in case anyone wonders: I made up the names for Jason and Rebecca; as far as I can tell, they weren't given names within the episode.


	7. Friends Like These

**Set just before the end of "Friends Like These," Season 3, Episode 8 (starts the night after the end of the Barry's ledger job, but before the morning when Fiona shows up at the loft to tell Michael she won't help with the Strickler job)**

* * *

Dwyane Wade was having a bad night. Which seemed fitting, since so was Fiona Glenanne, who was watching the Heat's Saturday night home game with her bare legs kicked up the back of her living room sofa. Miami's All-Star shooting guard was 3 for 18 midway through the third quarter of what was shaping up to be a bad loss to the Knicks, and Fiona was halfway through a large glass of Merlot on an empty stomach, smarting with the memory of "Natalie's" smug smile as she'd sashayed to freedom through a crowd of school children. Thoughts of Natalie were interspersed with equally unwelcome thoughts of Michael, focusing on the moments before and after he'd done something he'd never done before—hit her, unexpectedly and painfully.

Michael hadn't hit her out of anger. That much had been clear less than a minute after he'd done it, when he'd stopped her threatened retaliation by seizing her face in both his hands, eyes pleading as he apologized multiple times in a nearly frantic whisper and explained that Natalie was the real thief. Fiona had heard his apology and seen his pleading eyes, but had been too stung with shock to accept them. At the time, it had been all she could do to maintain her cover as she wrenched herself out of his grip, throat constricting with stifled rage. When Michael had tried to touch the cheek he hadn't slapped with his open palm, she'd backed decisively out of his reach, incredulous at his presumption. In that moment and for at least an hour after it, Fiona had been convinced she'd never let Michael touch her again.

Now, her emotions were more uncertain. Her anger had morphed into a churning soup of doubt and frustration, and the furious constriction of her throat had become a sinking weight in her chest. As she took a long sip of wine and watched Wade crash to the floor without a foul call after a driving layup, she hated herself for her doubt. But she hated Michael more for making her doubt him.

For what felt like the thousandth time in the past three hours, Fiona told herself Michael had only hit her in front of Natalie because he'd thought he had to—for the sake of the job. Experience told her she was right. In Ireland and Miami, she'd hit Michael many times, both on the job and off it. But Michael had never once raised a hand to hit her back. The sparring match that had led to their first lovemaking session in Miami was typical. Then, Fiona had done everything in her power to provoke him while he'd done everything in his power to diffuse her. When he hadn't been able to catch or block her punches and kicks, he'd let her hurt him. And when he'd accidentally struck her, he'd once again apologized—sincerely and profusely. After she'd knocked him to the ground and half-dislocated his fingers hauling him up again, he had threatened her, warning that if she didn't back down, she'd get hurt. In response, Fiona had almost laughed. To her, the determination of Michael's defence had only signalled how badly he'd wanted to surrender—which of course he had, several times before the sunrise.

Almost two years had passed since that night. During that time, some things had changed. Michael's bed had become more accessible, but there was also new competition for his attention—from Strickler, the agent to the spies who'd been making grand promises and sending Michael several gifts, most recently a leggy blonde bearing organic massage oil.

In her life, Fiona had worked with her share of bad people. Yet it was precisely that experience that made it so difficult to watch Michael work for someone like Strickler. People like Strickler didn't want you for one job, or even five jobs. And they didn't just want your skills; they wanted everything. Fiona was sure Michael knew those things as well as she did. That made his recent choices not just difficult, but heartrending. Michael knew he was selling his soul to Strickler for the promise of getting out from under his burn notice. But he didn't seem to care.

Part of her, a part that she didn't fully acknowledge or understand, held Michael to a higher standard than she held herself. Fiona had slept with bad men as well as worked with them; once, she'd even thought she loved one. But her feelings for Michael had always been different. Fiona didn't just care for Michael; she also believed in him. She'd believed in him before she knew his real name and had kept believing in him afterwards. She'd tried to stop believing in him after he'd left her in the middle of the night without a note or a word, but had never really succeeded. Though she'd managed to become more guarded with her heart, she still believed in the man Michael was—someone good, who often operated in the grey, but never the black.

She also needed to believe Michael was worth everything she'd given him. Her relationship with her family had never been the same once she'd started keeping the secret of Michael's real name. And when she'd rushed from New York to Miami to make sure Michael didn't die alone in a dingy motel room, she'd left behind many profitable business ventures. Since living in Miami, she'd given up a dozen more opportunities, usually because she was busy helping Michael. Sometimes, she was helping him with his many selfless crusades, jobs that reminded her why she'd once fallen so deeply in love with him. Other times, though, she was helping him with his burn notice, which meant she was either helping him leave her, or turn himself into the kind of man she wasn't sure she could love, not after loving the man he'd been.

Increasingly often in recent months, she'd heard a younger version of herself screaming inside her head, warning that she'd given up too much. That version of herself had been shaped by an upbringing in which she'd watched too many female friends and family members lose too much of themselves to too many men who didn't deserve it. It had also been shaped by many encounters with male violence. The first man to hit her had been her father. She'd been six years old, and had licked frosting off a coffee cake destined for a "union meeting." Her father's rage had been brief, but shocking. It had also had little to do with her; she'd simply been the easiest target at the end of a difficult day. He'd never done it again, but one time had been enough to make Fiona realize her father wasn't the man she'd thought he was. At five, Fiona had been sure her father was perfect; he was big, strong, and brave, as calm at the head of the table as staring down the barrel of a shotgun. But at six, she'd known he was flawed; like so many other men, her father was one bad day or extra pint away from taking out his weakness on the very people who depended most on his strength.

Fiona knew Michael wasn't her father. And he definitely wasn't the one-time family friend who'd tried to do something worse than hit her. But three times in the past few days, Michael had made her feel like a woman in entirely the wrong way—twice when he'd silenced her in front of Strickler, and a third time when he'd slapped her. Amid those slights, Fiona had been a bit too quick to believe Natalie's lies; she remained sick with guilt and fury about how easily she'd accepted Natalie's melodramatic impersonation of an abused single mother fighting to protect her non-existent son.

Wade's fifteen-foot fadeaway clanked off the back of the rim, and the Knicks pushed the long rebound for an easy two. Fiona drummed her fingers on her bare leg below the brief hem of her black yoga shorts, eyeing her Walther; the gun was resting on the coffee table atop the latest issue of _Harper's Bazaar_, spread open to the "fabulous at every age" section. Fiona had never shot a television before, but it had always seemed satisfying in the movies.

Her destructive reverie was interrupted by a knock on the front door. Fiona knew it was Michael. She wasn't expecting him, but unless someone had accidentally replicated his knock, it couldn't be anyone else.

She sat through a Coors Light commercial as she pondered what to do. In the commercial, a trio of frat boys giddily rung the doorbell of the Mystery Mansion; once inside, they grinned and high-fived amid waves of girls in red hot pants and white tank tops. Fiona wasn't eager to see Michael; she wanted to keep untangling her thoughts, and Michael's physical presence had a way of making her not want to think. She much preferred to be the instigator, penetrating Michael's space and thoughts. Usually, Michael made that easy; he rarely stopped by unannounced or called without the pretense of work.

But another part was intrigued, and even grateful. Fiona would never admit it, and Michael probably wouldn't believe her if she did, but she hated being angry at him. Even now, after spending a portion of the afternoon convinced she was going to leave him, she wanted an excuse to forgive him. All the pain of their time together in Miami was nothing compared to the long years of their separation. There was also so much that had been wonderful about their years in Miami, helping good people who couldn't help themselves, protected only by their wits, each other, and her trunk full of C-4.

By the time the Coors frat boys gave way to a broadly smiling mother of three making the case for Tide Pods, Fiona had muted the television, fingers closing around her Walther as she pushed herself to her feet. She kept the gun ready but tucked out of sight behind her back when she answered the door; where Michael was concerned, it paid to take extra precautions.

Michael was waiting patiently on her blue welcome mat between the spiky green and pink dracaenas that lined her walk, looking exactly like himself—a skillfully executed vision of effortless cool, from his perfectly mussed hair down to his worn-but-polished shoes. His impeccably white shirt was tucked securely into his crisp grey pants, yet the cuffs were rolled up to his elbows and the collar was unbuttoned to the smooth, tanned groove of his chest. Even though it was at least an hour too late to need them, he was also wearing his sunglasses, his eyes just barely visible through the amber lenses. In his right hand, he was carrying a large white paper bag with a logo showing a happy yellow fish jumping through a blood red sun.

Fiona dropped her shoulder against the door jam and looked at him, forcing him to explain his presence.

Michael's eyes flickered behind his sunglasses as he ever-so-slightly shifted his weight.

"I was heading back to the loft," he began, "but then I realized I hadn't eaten since this morning, and I know you've been just as busy, so…"

Fiona remained impassive as he trailed off. Sometimes, she was amused by the way his language skills deteriorated in her presence; at the moment, though, that amusement eluded her.

"It's sushi," Michael tried again. "From Toni's."

"They do the best yellowtail," she intoned.

"I know."

His eyes flickered again when she still didn't budge from her spot in the door jam.

At last, Michael conceded to a direct approach. "Can I come in…?"

Wordlessly, Fiona released the door jam and retreated into the kitchen. Michael followed her, closing the door behind him. Fiona didn't look back as she deposited her Walther on the kitchen island's black granite countertop and proceeded toward the wall of dove grey cupboards. As she opened the cupboard that held her plates, Michael came up beside her. He paused a few inches from her body, face concealed behind the open cupboard door.

From habit and instinct, Fiona slowed her movements. If Michael had been any other man, she would have assumed his closeness was a prelude to an embrace. But Michael wasn't any other man. Most of the time, his closeness was a defence against closeness, a way to feel her warmth without actually touching her. Fiona often played along, challenging his desire and his stamina. Bent over a work bench or a greasy engine, she'd carefully rotate her hips around the orbit of his, moving through molasses each time their fingers or bare arms nearly but didn't quite meet.

Tonight, though, she wasn't in the mood for games. Retrieving two large plates with a pale green glaze, she snapped the cupboard door shut, revealing Michael's slate blue eyes and an expression she'd seen before, though never as often as she liked; clearly, Michael wasn't in the mood for games, either.

Propelled by a sudden flush of warmth, Fiona spun quickly on her heel. She dropped the plates somewhat noisily onto the kitchen island, anger flaring at Michael's ability to disarm her with a look.

In an acerbic tone, she asked, "Are you worried I'll drop these plates, or throw them?"

She expected to see Michael's jaw clench with frustration or anger. But instead, she could have sworn he looked embarrassed; his eyes darted sideways as he slid his hands into his pockets and walked with studied casualness toward the living room door.

His voice was similarly casual as he asked, "Were you watching something?"

"Basketball," she confirmed.

"You like basketball?"

Fiona shrugged with her own practiced casualness as she started to lift plastic containers out of the paper bag Michael had left on the counter. "I used to date a guy who took me to games. Back in New York."

"I see."

"Jealous?"

"Should I be?"

Michael turned to face her, and their eyes locked across the room. The banter was easy, but it wasn't comfortable. Fiona was frustrated by Michael's charade of casualness, but even more frustrated by her own helpless participation. She'd never hesitated to speak her mind, to Michael or anyone else. But it was impossible to voice what she didn't fully understand.

"It was a long time ago," she offered after a moment, dropping her eyes as she returned her attention to unpacking the food.

Michael's hands were still in his pockets as he strolled back toward the kitchen island. "I hear the Heat are good this season."

"You 'hear'?"

"I'm not really into sports."

"Or Dwyane Wade, as I recall."

"I just think he's—"

"Overrated, I know."

Michael stopped on the opposite side of the kitchen island. She could feel the heat of his gaze as she pried the lid from a container of yellowtail and salmon sashimi, acutely aware of the seven inches she was giving up to him without her shoes.

As she moved on to a container of intricate, seaweed-wrapped sushi rolls, he said, "It wasn't your fault—what happened with Natalie."

"I know," Fiona returned quickly.

Michael paused, and then tried a different tack. "I would never—"

"I know," she interrupted sharply, dropping the container lids back into the paper bag.

"I didn't have a—"

"I _know_," she interrupted again, crumpling the bag and the container lids into a ball.

"So what's going on?" he asked, frustration finally creeping into his voice.

"Just because I _know_, doesn't mean I have to _like_ it."

She punctuated her words by slamming her foot down on the pedal of the metal garbage can and hurling the crumpled bag into it. When that action didn't steady her, she gripped and squeezed the counter, watching her fingers turn white against the black granite.

Michael placed his own hands on the counter between the food and her Walther as he asked, softly, "What do you want me to do?"

She looked up, and was greeted with a version of the same pleading look he'd offered earlier, after he'd slapped her.

"You know how I feel," she told him.

"Not always."

"Then I'll try to hit harder."

She'd wanted her words to hurt him, but immediately regretted how well she succeeded. Michael blinked and leaned back, hands withdrawing toward his own body.

His voice was toneless as he said, "That's not funny."

"It wasn't meant to be," she returned, keeping her own voice low to guard against the sudden tightness of her throat.

In the long, tense silence that followed, Fiona did her best to meet Michael's gaze. But she quickly found her focus pulled sideways, to the tiny scar under his left eye. She knew the scar was from his father, though he'd never recounted the full story, and she'd never pressed him to. Michael liked to keep the past in the past, and where his father was concerned, Fiona was usually content to let him. Yet she also knew that scars are just the most obvious sign that some cuts never heal.

At least half a dozen times, Fiona had seen the scar around Michael eye reopened. Once, during the job to recover Katya's sister, she'd reopened it herself. Fiona still remembered how Michael had looked when he'd accepted her punches, which had been meant to convince the Russian trafficker he'd been tortured. Michael had closed his eyes and held his head high, trusting her not to hurt him any more than she had to.

Finally, Michael dropped his eyes and stepped away toward the door. Fiona was grateful to be free of his eyes, which let her battle back the tightness in her throat. But her relief was short-lived; the moment her hard swallow hit the sinking feeling in her chest, everything got worse. When Michael had first knocked on her door, she'd wanted an excuse to forgive him; now, she needed one.

Still facing the door, Michael broke the long silence. "After we found out about Natalie, I called you. Three times. But you didn't answer."

"I left my phone on the coffee table when I went to the kitchen. I was fine."

"I didn't know that when I was calling you and watching Sam run half the lights on 71st Street," he reminded her testily.

"So all of this is my fault now?" she shot back—or at least, she tried to; her tight throat betrayed her, straining the words.

"That's not…" Michael started, and then lost his own voice, hands clenching at his sides.

When he tried again, his voice was softer, but clear. "I was _worried_ about you, Fi."

He turned to look at her as he added, even more quietly, "I was so worried, I could barely think."

His blue gaze lingered briefly before he once again dropped his eyes. Fiona forced down another hard swallow as she watched him try to recover from his own words, agitated hands landing on his hips as his eyes wore a hole in her white ceramic tiles. She didn't need to read his body language to know it was a painful confession; coming from Michael, a man who prided himself on not needing anything to be prepared for everything, there was nothing worse than losing control.

"You always have a plan," she observed.

"Not always," he repeated, voice smaller and sadder than before.

"And that makes it better?"

"I don't know."

Fiona closed her eyes as she drew in a long breath, and released it. Michael's confessions were always the same—heartbreaking in their brief but brutal honestly. Like his bravery, and his goodness, and the warmth of his skin when he looked at her with a certain glint in his eye, they were also routinely able to disarm her.

"I should go," Michael said at last.

His hand was on the doorknob by the time she found her voice. "You probably don't have anything to eat at the loft."

She opened her eyes, and watched him turn halfway, a question on his face.

"Just yogurt and limes. And I think the limes belong to Sam."

Fiona managed a small smile; Michael's summary of his fridge was a joke, but it was also probably true.

"I've got some sushi from Toni's," she told him. "There's enough for two."

"They do they best yellowtail," he returned, offering his own small, cautious smile.

"I know," she assured him.

Michael closed the distance slowly, and she circled the island to join him. They both stopped before they touched, looking down at the fingers and bare arms that nearly but didn't quite meet. Fiona closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the familiar promise of his warmth. This time, it didn't consume her in a sudden flush, but rather traveled languidly across her skin, coating her in a comforting, protective glow.

Once they started, they didn't always make it to the bed. The last time they'd come together had been against the steel door of the loft, her limbs tangled and clenched around Michael's weight while her backside made the cold metal warm. Tonight, she wanted to take her time—to make enough good memories to banish the long day's pain and doubt.

Their hands and clothes brushed playfully through the journey down the hall to the bedroom. They didn't touch properly until they were within sight of the bed. And they didn't kiss until they were naked, with all the sweat and dust of the day crumpled at their feet.

Fiona sank into Michael's body while walking him back toward the bed, doing her best to unbalance him as he held her with one hand and used the other to sweep aside the duvet, exposing the crisp white sheets. That done, Michael finally let his knees buckle against the mattress, pulling her down on top of him. She landed in his lap before tumbling onto her back. For a while, she accepted Michael's weight and the cage of his arms, her hands in his lower back as he lovingly but somewhat tentatively sucked her lips and tongue, gentle fingers caressing her cheek and trailing down her ribs. But Fiona had known before they started that it wasn't where she wanted him. She wanted Michael in her hands and at her mercy, proving his devotion through his surrender. Michael seemed to want some version of the same; when she fought to flip him, he went easily, greeting the pressure of her body with a deep sigh that reverberated down every inch of her own naked flesh.

From her place astride his body, Fiona proceeded to kiss her way down, reacquainting herself with all the favourite parts and places that Michael was only too happy to let her adore. Her mouth and hands teased and trailed along his throat, then dropped to worship his nipples and the soft-hard curves of his pecs. Her lips didn't leave his skin as she sank her face into the hollow of his ribs and followed the trail of dark hair down his stomach to the taut groove of his belly button. Michael's grateful fingers tangled in her hair and ghosted across her back until she sank lower. Then he propped himself up on his elbows, his back arching him closer to her lips.

Face to face with the most sensitive part of him, Fiona wet the length of his shaft before taking him in her mouth. She started shallow, then dove deeper, left hand sliding under his balls when she dove as deep as she could. In response, Michael dropped his head back and made a rare, wonderful sound, chest rising and falling with deep breaths of pleasure and need.

Michael made another, different sound when she slowed and pulled back, her lips just barely hooked around his tip. From there, she looked up at him, daring him with the fact and spectacle of his vulnerability. Michael's breath steadied as he met her gaze across his torso, cloudy eyes clearing under her challenge. With his cock in her mouth and his balls in her hand, he twitched his lips into a smile—happy and fearless in his reckless surrender. Fiona reeled with helpless devotion as she rewarded him with the rest of her mouth, drunk on the glimpse of the man she loved—the one who could meet her every challenge and who understood, better than any man she'd ever know, how to find strength in weakness.

She stopped before she lost the chance to take the rest of what she wanted, climbing back up his body to sling her arms around his neck and her thighs around his hips. Michael thrust upright to meet her, mouth seizing hers before dropping to her breasts, day-old stubble scratching across her nipples. Fiona exhaled a throaty sigh as she pressed tighter into his lap, and then pulled back to get tighter still. Her sigh became a moan in the shape of his name when the wet suction of her need finally encased his. Michael's own throat rumbled against her skin a moment before he let himself fall back against the headboard. Fiona fell with him, breasts colliding with his collarbone when his shoulders hit the white tufted leather with a satisfying smack.

Fiona grabbed the headboard to ground the needful motion of her hips while Michael ground himself in her body, hands clenching and kneading her ass, his damp breath hot on her neck and chest. When she pushed off the headboard to throw herself backwards, Michael caught her exactly where and when she'd known he would, strong, perfect hands supporting the arched curve of her spine and the base of her limp neck as she gasped into the ceiling and shook her hair down her back. Fiona lost her sense of time before she lost herself, soaring on a bubble of pleasure that exploded when Michael pulled down hard on her shoulders, releasing a muffled noise into her breasts and the rest of him into the rest of her.

For once, the aftermath was almost as good. Michael let her trace aimless patterns in his chest and study his face, smiling lazily into her touch when she outlined the shape of his lips. Michael had the kind of face that was slow to age. When she'd known him in Ireland, he'd been in his early 30s, but had looked younger, his full lips, clear blue eyes, and upturned nose lending his face an improbable innocence. Though he'd always been able to disguise that seeming innocence, Fiona knew he also exploited it, his boyish face being just as slow to age as it was easy to trust. Now, his features were less boyish; his lips were thinner and his cheekbones were sharper, his once-bottomless eyes framed by tiny, deepening creases. But he was just as handsome—handsomer, even, in the decline of his boyishness. He was also just as easy to trust.

Fiona ran her fingertips over the shallow indent of the scar under his left eye. Michael's smile faded as he absorbed her silent question.

"Another time," he promised.

Fiona agreed with an easy nod, confident, in a way she hadn't been an hour before, that there would be many other times.

"Are you still hungry?" she asked.

"Maybe later," he offered, blinking slowly as he stretched his naked, sated body along her side.

Fiona rolled onto her back to accommodate him, smiling dreamily as he nuzzled her jaw before resting his cheek on her sternum, his arm curling protectively around her waist. She let her own nose brush his forehead as she pulled the sheets up over their bodies, her hand slipping along his thigh when he folded his leg over hers. Michael should have felt heavy wrapped around her smaller body, but he didn't. Instead, he felt right, his lean muscles married perfectly to her own hard curves.

* * *

Fiona woke up sticky, ravenously hungry, drenched in Michael's scent and colder than she should be. The uncomfortable parts of her situation were alleviated by the heavenly sight of the pale dawn fuzzing over Michael's bare shoulders, and then aggravated when she realized he was standing by the side of the bed, pulling his pants up over his narrow hips.

"Michael…?"

"Hey," he greeted, turning to face her as he stretched his undershirt over his head and down his torso.

"What time is it?"

"A little after 5," Michael replied.

"Are you leaving?"

Michael nodded idly as he ducked down to collect his white shirt, then slipped it over his shoulders. "There's some stuff I need to do before the Strickler job. I didn't have time yesterday."

"I guess you weren't planning to say goodbye…" she mumbled, hauling herself upright as she tried to make sense of her tangled hair.

Michael eyed her as buttoned his shirt. "I'll see you in a few hours," he reminded her.

"Right," she agreed automatically.

He finished with the buttons on his shirt and then leaned forward to kiss her, gently, on the forehead. "Thank you."

Fiona forced a small smile as he pulled away. Michael's own face was blank, his eyes already moving toward the exit. It was an expression she'd seen before, more often than she liked. The room grew colder as she watched him scoop up his shoes and hurry out the door.

Fiona knew it was a phenomenon she should be used to, yet still found herself wondering how the man with the sensitive, knowing hands and lazy smile who'd fallen asleep with his head pillowed on her chest could have changed so quickly into a different type of man—one who'd somehow forgotten their argument from the day before, when she'd instructed him, in no uncertain terms, to stop thanking her. Michael's thank yous were starting to make her feel like an employee, or something worse; at present, that worse feeling was amplified by the uncomfortable dampness of her thighs twisted in the lonely sheets.

She remained in bed until she was sure Michael was gone. Then she then got up, stripped the sheets from the bed, and dropped them in the laundry hamper on her way to the shower. After the shower, she donned a French terry bathrobe, and headed for the kitchen.

On the way, she passed through the living room to finally turn off the television she'd left on the night before. She paused with the remote in her hand as the muted set ran through the sports highlights. She'd apparently missed what they were already calling a "classic" Dwyane Wade performance. The highlights showed he'd recovered from his slow start to have a blistering fourth quarter, hitting a three-pointer to push the game into overtime and a series of equally impossible shots to clinch the eventual victory. She clicked off the television after the highlights segued into excerpts from the post-game press conference, where Wade was resplendent in diamond earrings and a flower-patterned Versace track jacket, basking with false humility in the renewed certainty of his greatness.

From the living room she continued to the kitchen, where the sushi and sashimi, now spoiled, was still lying open on the counter next to the unused plates and her Walther. She swept the food into a garbage bag, wiped the counter clean, and returned the plates to the cupboard and her gun to the empty space at the back of the utensil drawer. That done, she filled her bean-to-cup coffee maker and leaned back against the cupboards to wait for her morning to improve.

Listening to the whirring of the coffee maker with Michael's scent still somehow lingering on her skin, Fiona was hit with a thoroughly unwelcome sense of routine. Fiona could count on one hand the times she and Michael had had breakfast together in Miami. Though they sometimes woke up together, such mornings were routinely awkward, defined by loaded glances and a physical dissonance thoroughly at odds with the magical harmony of work and sex.

Usually, they overcame the morning-after awkwardness by starting a new job. But Fiona knew today's job wouldn't help. Today, she was helping Michael help Strickler, which meant she was also helping Strickler ruin whatever harmony she and Michael did have. It also meant risking part of herself, which had become so thoroughly intertwined with the mind and body of the best partner she'd ever had.

Fiona managed to make it halfway through a tasteless cup of coffee before storming back toward the bedroom, hoping movement and the distraction of preparing for the impending job might tame her increasingly anxious thoughts. She only made it as far as the hallway before more doubts slammed into her already thudding chest. Confronting her collection of snow globes, Fiona also confronted how easy she was to appease with trinkets and small concessions.

The first snow globe Michael had given her had been in Dublin, as part of a weeks-long campaign to re-earn her trust following the revelation of his real identity. She'd been thoroughly touched by the unusual gesture, so much so that she'd taken him to bed for the first time since knowing him as Michael Westen. Inexplicably, she'd been just as touched after Michael had given her a Miami snow globe following the Thomas McKee affair. After all those years, she should have known better; the Dublin show globe had been nice while it lasted, but had been shattered in a paroxysm of rage and grief the morning after Michael abandoned her in Ireland without so much as a goodbye. As she stared at the happy blue dolphin jumping over a pink rock inside the Miami snow globe, she didn't realize so much as remember: Michael would always be leaving, and she'd always be stuck picking up the pieces.

By the time she reached the bedroom closet, the younger version of herself had started to scream inside her head, heralding more unwelcome memories. When she opened her closet to assemble the sunbather outfit she'd planned to wear for the Strickler job, she was stopped by the sudden appearance of those memories in her reflection on the back of the closet door. When she was younger, she'd never thought she looked much like her mother. But with every year that passed, she saw the resemblance grow. Her current slicked-back hair and lack of makeup exaggerated the effect, as did her expression. She looked tired, but she also looked bitter—consumed and worn down by the things she couldn't control.

Her mother had always dressed for her father. Before her father came home from whatever violent piece of business he happened to be doing that day, her mother would invariably discard her jeans or rumpled slacks for a freshly pressed skirt or dress. Fiona's mother had been a strong woman; it had been her mother who'd taught her how to load a revolver, and who'd preserved the family legacy after her father had died. But her mother had also known and embraced her role as the wife of an important man. Fiona's mother had spared her father from thinking about the world that existed beyond and without him, a world that included her mother's own hobbies and dreams as well as things like washing bedsheets and dishes and taking out the trash.

When Fiona dressed for Michael, she didn't usually dress to please him; most of the time, she dressed to unsettle him, knowing and loving the power of her curves and bare skin. Yet as she looked in the mirror and saw her mother's high cheekbones and lined eyes, that power seemed very distant. Flashing back to Michael's fearless surrender from the night before, Fiona wondered if he'd been fearless not out of strength or devotion, but simply because he didn't think he needed to be afraid. She also reflected that where her mother had at least been dressing for a man she loved, she was preparing to dress not only for Michael, but also for Strickler—a man she despised.

Fiona shoved her teal sundress aside and yanked free a one-shouldered black top, which she subsequently paired with black leggings and a healthy dose of dark eyeliner. It was a decidedly un-Miami outfit. But, as Fiona beheld her transformed reflection in the full-length mirror, she knew it was also an appropriate one. All at once, she realized that even during the best moments of the night before, some part of her had forecast a day of mourning. Even as she'd clung to the hope of banishing her doubts in a long, slow communion with Michael's body, another, deeper part of her had been saying goodbye.

The drive to the loft passed in a blur, all the attention she could spare devoted to rehearsing her role in the scene to come. Humorously, it occurred to her that it was exactly the type of thing Michael would do; when he wasn't tongue-tied or spilling painful confessions, Michael was often composing carefully worded speeches to guard against his sometimes rebellious heart.

The morning sun was streaming in when she arrived at the loft, falling across the slatted table where Michael, wearing jeans and a soft blue polo shirt, was busy fiddling with a digital camera.

He glanced up as she entered, performing a brief double-take as he observed, "I thought you were gonna go as a sunbather."

Fiona walked to the side of the table, then began the speech she'd memorized during the otherwise thoughtless drive.

"Michael... I know I said that I would go along with you on this job. But I don't want you to work with Strickler. Not not. Not ever."

She inserted herself between his shoulder and the wall to add, "I can't help you with this."

Michael's expression turned serious, though he continued fiddling with the camera. "It's a two-person job," he stated. "I need you."

Fiona turned her cheek when he pointed the camera at her face and tested the shutter. "I've seen the sight. You can handle yourself. I'm not worried about _that_, I'm worried about _you_. Working with someone like Strickler… it changes you, little by little."

Michael finally lowered the camera, along with his eyes. With certainty, he said, "He's the _only_ one who can get me back in."

Fiona had nothing to say to that. Whether he was right or wrong didn't matter. What mattered was whether he thought getting back in was worth losing everything else.

Michael looked up again as he asked, with considerably less certainty, "What do you want me to do?"

The pain in his eyes tightened her throat, but his need to repeat the question strengthened her resolve. During the drive to the loft and even after beginning her speech, Fiona had still hoped Michael might give her a reason to stay. But it had quickly become clear he either wouldn't, or couldn't; he was committed to his path, which meant she'd need to commit to hers.

"You do what you have to do," she offered, helpless tears misting her eyes. "I understand. I just can't stay here in Miami, and watch."

She saw fear join the pain in Michael's eyes a moment before she spun on her heel and strode determinedly toward the door.

The same fear was present in his voice when he called after her, "Fi?... Fi?... _Fiona_?"

Fiona closed the door on Michael's fear and pain-filled voice, then closed her car door on the too-familiar sight of the loft's rusted steel steps. Minutes later, she merged onto the I-95, and began a call to a long-distance number she knew by heart, even though it had been many months since she'd dialed it.

"Mom? It's me—Fiona. I'm calling because I'll be coming to Ireland... That's right—I'm coming home."

The call was brief, and surprisingly painless. Everything felt painless a moment before the road ahead became strangely blurred. At first, Fiona thought she must be driving through a sun shower. She had to test her wipers and touch her face to realize the blurriness was tears, streaming silently down her face and getting thicker the faster she drove.

**~END~ **(for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** Apologies for the sad ending, but at least we all know this isn't really the end :) Apologies, too, for all the Dwyane Wade gushing that made it into this chapter. I do have at least a bit of a canon excuse, though; that Michael has strangely passionate opinions about Wade was established way back in the fourth episode, "Old Friends."

This chapter leads directly into the next one, which is Michael's perspective in the aftermath of "Long Way Back"… 


	8. Long Way Back

**Set in the aftermath of "Long Way Back," Season 3, Episode 9**

* * *

Michael woke up to one of his favourite sights in the entire world: the naked backside of Fiona Glenanne. She was sitting upright in the brass bed with her legs slung over the edge, free of the rumple of blankets that still covered his lower half. Her face was turned toward the first dim light of the dawn, which was fighting its way through a thin layer of frost on the wavy glass windowpanes. Michael gazed up at her with his head still resting on the pillow, wanting to make the moment last. He let his eyes curve around his lover's hips to the bold architecture of her back, counting each notch of her spine until he lost it under the thick curtain of her cinnamon brown hair.

Finally, Fiona shifted, and turned. Michael met her with a lazy smile that fell the moment he saw her face. Fiona's bloodshot eyes were framed by a bloom of deep purple bruises that darkened most of her left cheek and the edge of her swollen lower lip, which was split at the centre by a burgundy stripe of dried blood. Michael's own lips dropped open as he reached for her, then pursed shut as he caught sight of his hand. His fingers and broken knuckles were filthy with dirt and blood, only some of which was his own. With sudden desperation, he thrust his hand forward, searching for the stability of Fiona's warmth. Yet when his bloody fingers closed on her shoulder, she stared at him as though she didn't feel his touch, or didn't care, her bloodshot eyes either blank or blind. Michael gagged on a swallow as he sank his fingernails into her flesh, begging her to be anything besides than what she was—vacant, passive, and broken.

Fiona's shoulder became the handle of her H&K a moment before Michael's head jerked up from the kitchen table at his mother's house. His senses were alert before his mind was, as he aimed the gun at the door and performed a rapid survey of the room. There was nothing to see or shoot; it was early morning, and the dimly lit kitchen was empty. The events of the day came back to him as he lowered the gun. He was carrying Fiona's H&K because he'd tossed his Sig Sauer into the Miami River after using it to kill Strickler. And he was sitting at the kitchen table at his mother's house because someone had killed Diego in retaliation for Strickler, and anyone might be next. That included Fiona and her brother Sean, both of whom were currently sleeping in the living room, held together with stitches and pumped full of painkillers.

With an effort, Michael unclenched his fingers from around the grip of Fiona's gun and pushed it part of the way across the table. It wasn't the first time he'd fallen asleep with a gun in his hand, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. But as a rule, he tried to avoid it, especially when he was more besieged than usual by the kinds of nightmares a gun did little to comfort.

Michael massaged his tired eyes and rolled his stiff shoulders, summoning the steadying ache of his cracked ribs. With closed eyes, he listened for any disruptions in the early morning quiet. There were none; all he could hear was the faint sound of Sean's slightly laboured breathing in the adjacent room. Sean would be asleep in a makeshift bed by the window, while Fiona would be asleep on the sofa. When Michael had last seen her, she'd been lying on her side with her good arm cradling the bullet wound in her left shoulder, breathing deeply against a green chenille pillow. The house's final occupant, his mother, would be in her room, where she'd either be asleep, or pretending to be.

As he got to his feet, Michael's head ignited with a sudden rush of pain, centered on the spot where he'd struck the marble pillar after being hit in the back by the beanbag rounds from Thomas O'Neill's assault rifle. Falling asleep in a straight-backed wooden chair hadn't done his injuries any favours, but retreating to the spare bedroom hadn't been an option. First, Michael had been consumed by a need to watch Fiona sleep; he'd succumbed to that need for more than an hour, hypnotized by her delicate beauty until he became too unsettled by her vulnerability. Then, he'd needed to feel useful, which he'd done by taking up his spot at the kitchen table, studying the rare pass of headlights until he'd finally surrendered to weariness and the futility of the task. Yet it wasn't just his concern for Fiona and the house's other occupants that made the spare room inaccessible. The room his mother now called the spare room had once been his room, and Michael had made himself a promise to never sleep there again. It was a promise he'd kept for more than twenty years.

Michael walked across the kitchen to the door and gazed out through the glass at the pitch blackness of the back yard. He didn't need to see the yard to know what it looked like. The view hadn't meaningfully changed since his childhood, when it had been seared into his brain as indelibly as anything else before or since. Michael had lost weeks of his life sitting on that back stoop, staring at the white wooden fence that separated his mother's house from the neighbour's and longing with a ferocious, bitter intensity to be anywhere besides where he was—trapped by walls and fences and his own helpless youth. Since then, he'd climbed and demolished walls and fences in places his childhood self had never known or dreamed of. Yet the fence at the edge of his mother's yard remained as sturdy as his memory of it, a defiant symbol of the enduring past.

As a child and teenager, Michael's only specific goals for his future had revolved around the things he knew he didn't want. Some of those things were practical, like a house, a wife, and a family. Other things were grander and harder to avoid, like powerlessness, and fear. To the extent he'd had any positive goals, he'd wanted to be someone immune to the world's chaos, who could walk through flames and be blissfully numb. In his decades with the army and the CIA, he'd survived enough fires to believe he might have succeeded in becoming that man. But his forced return to Miami, along with the return of his family and, especially, the return of Fiona, had proved him wrong. Since the night two years ago when Fiona had fought him to the mattress of his own bed, Michael had found it increasingly difficult to deny how good it could feel to burn.

Michael's memory of that first time in Miami was more vivid than he sometimes wanted it to be. He viscerally remembered the way his whole body had hurt with pleasure as Fiona had licked the sweat off his skin and dug her nails into the small of his back, and how he'd drilled her deep into the mattress with his fists clenched in her hair. The second time had been even better. It had started sometime after the first with his face between Fiona's thighs, and finished with her riding him ragged, both of her hands and most of her weight pressing hard on his gasping chest, while his vision filled with the spectacle of his own saliva glistening on her hard, perfect nipples. Yet Michael also remembered how the return of passion had meant the return of fear. In the wake of his pleasure, he'd been terrified by the realization of its past and future absence, haunted by all the things he'd convinced himself he could live without during so many months of sleeping in his clothes on cave floors and under canvas tents, getting sand in places he hadn't thought sand could get. After a brief, exhausted sleep, he'd laid awake most of the night, paralyzed by the whisper of Fiona's naked skin under the sheets and a quandary he knew well, though he'd never fully understood it; some fundamental part of him could never quite accept how something that scared him so much could still seem so right.

Every month he remained in Miami, that quandary became more pronounced and unmanageable. The easier it became to let Fiona into his bed, the harder it became to manage the fear she brought with her. When he'd thought Natalie might have hurt or killed Fiona, he'd barely been able to think. And when Fiona had showed up at the loft to tell him she was leaving, he'd been so scared he'd been angry—at himself for being scared, and at Fiona for making him that way. He'd been nearly blind with fear when he'd seen Fiona floating face down in the harbor after smacking her forehead into Thomas O'Neill's and jumping off the pier in a hail of bullets. In that moment, the only thing worse than the thought of Fiona's death had been the sickening certainty that it would be his fault—because he'd realized too late that he should have been even more scared.

A yellow light clicked on in one of the upper-floor rooms of the neighbour's house. Michael studied the light intently until it went off, and then mourned its loss. Just like when he was a child, he found himself longing to be anywhere besides where he was. Though unlike when he was a child, he could see the uselessness of that longing. The neighbour's unchanging fence was one symbol of the enduring past; the rebirth of McBride was another.

Michael had been genuinely surprised to learn Fiona had kept his real identity a secret for so many years. After the initial shock had worn off, he'd been surprised a second time by his own surprise. It had made sense for Fiona to keep his secret; not telling her IRA-affiliated family that he was really an American spy was better for his safety and theirs. Yet in all the years since Ireland, Michael had never truly considered the possibility that McBride might continue to exist without him. He'd tried very hard to think of McBride as dead and buried, killed the night he'd abandoned Fiona asleep in the Dublin flat they'd called home. But despite his best efforts, McBride had remained alive for people who deserved to hate him even even more than they already did.

The enduring reality of McBride shouldn't have been surprising. McBride had always been more than an accent and a set of made-up facts in a dossier. During the months Michael had lived as McBride, he'd become a way of thinking and a way of feeling. McBride had his own way of walking and talking, but he also had his own way of experiencing the world. That world included Fiona. As McBride, Michael had wanted Fiona in ways he'd never wanted another woman before or since. McBride had ached for Fiona throughout the day and night, thirsting for her body and starving for her touch. McBride had loved the taste of Fiona's skin misted with dew and ocean spray, and the feel of her hair curled and tangled by the wind. McBride could be hot on a cold day imagining Fiona's perfect lips turning his name into a throaty moan, and cold in a warm bed when her bare flesh wasn't twined with his. As McBride, he'd known the risks of mixing the personal with the professional, but had been too drunk on the late arrival of young love to accept the reality of those risks—until it was too late.

Pieces of McBride had been haunting him since that first time in Miami, and his presence had grown stronger in recent weeks. On the night after Fiona had announced she was leaving, it was McBride who'd poured the first shot of whisky to forget how badly he missed her, and the second shot to forget the first. By the next morning, when Fiona had showed up looking for her H&K with the silver slide, McBride had left him wallowing in a hangover of sentimental longing, his bleary eyes pondering a small collection of photographs that had improbably survived all his training and better judgement. His favourite photographs captured some spark of Fiona's essence—the hint of danger in her playful smile, or the deceptive strength of her girlish frame. One photograph, taken against his will by Fiona's cousin Rosaline on New Year's Day in Dublin, captured something that had been common in Ireland and near-nonexistent in Miami—he and Fiona, kissing in public. In the photo, Fiona was standing on her tiptoes to reach his face, while he greeted her with a smile in the wrinkles of his half-lidded eyes.

McBride had visited him most intensely inside the moment he'd killed Strickler.

Michael knew he could have tried to disable Strickler instead of killing him; at that range, it should have been possible to shoot the gun out of Strickler's hand or shatter his kneecap. But when Strickler had told him to forget the past, something had happened to the part of his brain that knew killing someone always causes more problems than it solves. In rapid succession, a surge of fear had become a swell of rage that travelled up his back to his chest and down his arm to his trigger finger. Each hot release had felt good, and right, the quick pop and squish of the bullet that sailed through Strickler's ribs to his heart turning the fire in his chest into a glow of satisfaction.

Strickler was the first man Michael had deliberately killed in more than two years, and the first man in many more years that he didn't regret killing. He'd tried to regret it while staring at the broken, bloody heap of Diego's body on the pavement many floors below the former operative's apartment. But any guilt he did feel was obligatory and abstract, overwhelmed by his deep and utter gratefulness that Fiona, at least, had survived. That lack of regret was another vestige of McBride. As Michael Westen, he'd always feel guilty about the months he'd spent hiding real feelings behind a fake name. But McBride had forgotten to feel guilty for days and weeks at a time, taking his pleasure when he wanted and letting Fiona love a false man as though he were real.

Michael flexed his idle fingers while eyeing the metal handle of his mother's back door. It would be so simple to open the door, and walk out. He could hotwire a car down the street and be far away by daybreak, some place where his friends, family, and whoever was still keeping tabs on him would never find him, and where he could watch from afar as the people he'd left behind thrived in his absence, free of all the danger and heartache he'd rained upon their lives. Baring that, he'd run—as far and as fast as he could until his cracked ribs made him stop. Then he'd collapse in exhausted pain on the pavement of whatever street he'd run to, and somehow, he'd know what to do. Some of his best plans came to him that way—when his only choices were death or survival. It was a different longing for escape than anything he'd dreamt as a child. As a child, he'd wanted to save himself from getting hurt; now, he wanted to hurt himself to save someone else.

A sudden thud from the direction of the living room wrenched Michael's gaze away from the door. Within seconds, his itchy fingers were once again wrapped around Fiona's H&K, his whole self focused on the task at hand—making sure his many mistakes didn't reverberate any more than they already had. He took two quick steps toward the doorway that led to the living room before a second sound made him pause. It was the subtle, creaky sound of bare feet padding on carpet. Small feet. Fiona's feet.

Michael tucked the H&K into the small of his back and himself against the wall behind the doorway, and listened. He heard Fiona tiptoe across the room, and then stop. She uttered a tiny grunt of effort that sounded like bending over or sitting down; Sean greeted her with a louder grunt of pain.

In a low voice, Fiona asked, "How are you feeling?"

"How do ya think?" Sean grumbled back.

"I'm sorry," Fiona said. "About O'Neill. And about Michael."

Michael sunk his teeth into his cheek. Hearing Fiona apologize for his crimes was bad enough; realizing she'd probably been doing it for years was worse. For a moment, he wondered if he should keep listening. Spying on Fiona—and her family—was uncomfortably familiar, and as unfair now as it had been a decade before. But it was also irresistible; spying had always come naturally, a state of affairs which Michael chose not to credit to his mother.

"I getcha not telling mum and the others," said Sean. "But you coulda told me."

"It wasn't my secret to give."

"But it was yers to keep."

"Yes."

The sadness in Fiona's voice made Michael's jaw clench tighter. For him, trying to keep secrets from family members came as naturally as spying. It had never been as easy for Fiona. Though she and her brothers protected many grave secrets, they usually did it together—as a family.

"Mum will have a fit when she finds out," said Fiona.

"She always liked him."

"He's good at that. When he wants to be."

"So are ya still leavin'?"

"I have to," Fiona intoned.

"He makin' ya?"

"It's my choice."

"Back in Ireland—did ya know about him then?"

Fiona didn't say anything, but she must have nodded.

"From the beginning?"

"No."

"But ya stayed with him."

"Yes."

"And what's this compared ta that?"

"You don't…"

Fiona's low voice had risen, as though she were gearing up for an angry protest. But whatever she'd been about to say faded quickly.

"Michael's not the same person he was in Ireland," she finished quietly.

"He dresses better, fer a start."

Sean made a sound that suggested Fiona might have hit him. In the wake of that violence, there was a period of calm, which was eventually broken by Sean. "Do ya remember Jimmy O'Connor's New Year's party?"

Michael remembered the party very well. Beforehand, he'd dreaded it for a week. The entire concept had been a nightmare; an overcrowded dancehall where decades-old friends and enemies intermingled amid copious whisky and free-flowing casks of beer was no place for the careful maneuvering required to maintain what had always been a slightly shaky cover ID. But he'd had to go, for Fiona's sake—because he'd known she'd wanted him to, and because she'd been the glue holding together his shaky ID. In Ireland, most of the people he'd needed to talk to had only talked to him because he'd been Fiona's boyfriend. And no one fucked with Fiona Glenanne—not unless they wanted to get hurt.

Within an hour of arriving, his opinion of the party had improved considerably. While most of the women in attendance had worn dresses, Fiona had thrown off her heavy overcoat to reveal a low-slung pair of black leather pants paired with a tight white tank top that exposed a generous portion of her taut, smooth midsection. She'd spent most of the night dancing and drinking at the centre of a crowd of large, drunk men, none of whom dared lay a finger on her tiny frame. Michael had watched Fiona from the sidelines, meeting the fiery flash of her hazel eyes with a steady gaze and lips that lingered on the mouth of his beer, taking deep, wet sips that had nothing to do with the drink itself.

"I remember Jake and Ros having to carry you to the car," Fiona quipped.

"I remember the way McBride looked at ya while ya were dancing."

"Let me guess—'like I was the most beautiful girl in the room.'"

Fiona's voice had been sing-song sarcastic, but Sean's was deadly serious as he said, "No—like ya were the only girl in the world."

Michael swallowed in the long pause that followed, and forced a slow breath through his tight chest.

"People change," Fiona said, so quietly Michael could barely hear.

"They don't change so much."

"They do if they're spies."

"Yet spies are people, just like everyone else."

"_You've_ changed."

"I haven't changed so much. And neither 'ave you."

Fiona didn't reply, giving Michael time to consider Sean's words. In some ways, Fiona had changed a great deal. The woman he'd known in Ireland hadn't owned any designer handbags. She hadn't gotten manicures or Brazilian waxes, or haircuts from salons with secret numbers and long waiting lists. She'd drunk tea instead of coffee, and had been most at home in the sketchiest bars in the worst parts of town. Yet in other ways, Fiona hadn't changed a bit. She still hated clothes without pockets and shoes she couldn't run in. Her favourite gun was still a Walther PPK, and her favourite hobby was blowing things up. And she was still brilliant, passionate, and fearless—everything he loved in a woman and had never managed to love in himself.

Sean said, "Now ya can't go back to Ireland—where will ya go?"

Suddenly, Michael was sure he'd heard enough. He backed away from the doorway and walked boldly into the room, advertising his disinterest in the conversation he was pretending not to have heard by ignoring Sean and Fiona and heading straight to the front door. He took his time inspecting the view before finally turning his attention to the Glenanne siblings.

"You should be sleeping," he said. "Both of you."

As he walked toward Sean's place at the window, Sean shot him a defiant look that Michael had seen before, several times in the past two days and many more times before that, every time he'd tried to offer an opinion about anything—especially when that opinion concerned Sean's sister.

"And what about you, _Westen_," Sean returned, unsubtly emphasizing Michael's real last name. "O'Neill musta clipped you good as well."

Sean's tone was gruff, but the words themselves bore a note a conciliation, suggesting Sean's earlier forgiveness of Michael's long deception had been mostly sincere.

Michael opened his mouth to say he was fine, but when he looked down at Fiona, the automatic words died on his lips. She was sitting on the floor next to her brother, wearing a white tank top and a pair of brief cotton shorts. Her good arm was wrapped around her bent legs, and her injured arm was tucked close to her body behind the protective cage of her knees. She looked impossibly small, and uncharacteristically lost, her drawn face creased with indecision. Michael forced down another hard swallow as he realized that despite everything he'd done and her own painful wounds, Fiona was actually worried about him.

Michael addressed himself to Fiona as he said, "I'm okay."

He forced himself to meet her gaze long enough to make sure she heard him. A small twitch of her tight lips confirmed that she did—okay wasn't fine, but it was good enough.

"What time is it?" Fiona asked.

Michael checked his watch. "A little after four-thirty."

"Westen's right, Fiona," Sean chimed in. "Ya should be sleeping."

"Me?" she returned, shooting a glance over her shoulder. "You're the one with a hole in his damn chest."

Michael almost smiled, grateful for the hint of familiar fire in Fiona's voice, and to Sean for stoking it.

"Which means I'm too sick ta argue," said Sean. "Get out of here—go."

Sean shifted in his makeshift bed and scrunched his eyes shut, making it clear his participation in the conversation had ended.

"Go where?" Fiona questioned. "We're stuck here until—"

"I know a place," Michael interrupted. "C'mon."

He crouched and extended his hand to help Fiona to her feet. She needed the help; she was shaky getting up, her face blanching as her feet shuffled. Michael held her steady until she she made a not-totally-successful attempt to square her stance. Then he dutifully released her, hands retreating toward his own body.

Michael moved slowly through the living room and into the hall, closely tracking Fiona's movements behind him. Though she occasionally used the wall to aid her, she managed to follow him down the hall toward the spare bedroom.

Sneaking around his mother's house conjured plenty of unpleasant memories. It was also, however, one of Michael's best skills. He successfully steered Fiona around every creaky floorboard before finessing the stiff hinge on the spare room into opening quietly, if not quite silently.

Flicking on the light switch felt like turning a page in a photo album to reveal a snapshot of the past. All of what the army or the prison system would call his "personal effects" were long gone, either destroyed by his father, stolen by his brother, or packed into boxes by his mother. Otherwise, the room was exactly how Michael remembered it, with the same double bed in the same fake-oak bed frame next to the same white wicker chair facing the same varnished pine dresser surrounded by the same baby blue walls. Growing up, Michael had hated those walls almost as much as he'd hated the view of the back yard. More than once, he'd tried to deface them. When he was five, he'd used markers, and when he was seven, he'd used matches, finally burning enough of the paint and drywall that his mother had been forced to move the bed to cover it. Ever since, the bed had occupied an unattractive and tactically disturbing position between the door and the window, with the window at the foot of the bed on the left side, and the door at the top on the right. Michael had never slept well after that; he remembered spending many long nights lying awake and listening for intruders, tortured by the impossibility of watching both the door and the window.

Suddenly thankful for the consuming distraction of Fiona's injuries, Michael watched her survey the room with dazed fascination, as though encountering a strange and puzzling museum exhibit.

"I've never been in here before," she observed.

"This is my room," Michael explained. "I mean—it _was_."

"It doesn't look like you."

"Yeah, well, I haven't lived here in a while."

Fiona nodded slowly as her eyes finally landed on the bed. It took all of Michael's self control not to extend a helping hand as she climbed stiffly into the place he made for her. Her face blanched again when she lowered herself to the pillow, but calmed quickly once she was settled.

Michael was careful to disguise the pain in his own bones and muscles as he took a seat in the wicker chair next to the bed. For a while, they avoided each other's eyes and tried not to listen to the silence. Fiona's expression was either meditative or vacant, though the half-remembered dream that woke him made Michael hope for the former. Michael's own thoughts were dominated by the strangeness of the scene. He'd never seen a woman he'd been intimate with lying in that particular bed; in high school, his encounters with the opposite sex had usually taken place in cars and bathrooms, or at the house of a particular college freshman whose major attraction had been how often her parents were out of town. Briefly, he wondered how his teenage self might have reacted to Fiona Glenanne, explosives expert and former IRA guerilla, nursing a bullet wound in his bed. The thought was brief because the answer was obvious. His teenage self wouldn't have been ready for Fiona; too often, his adult self still wasn't ready.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"Not right now."

Michael nodded as they fell back into silence. He knew Fiona was deliberately withholding what he wanted, which was some clear indication of what she was thinking, and how she was feeling.

Fiona was staring at her fingers on the blue and orange-patterned comforter as she asked, "How much did you hear?"

"I don't—"

"You're a spy," said Fiona. "A girl comes to expect these things."

Her words had the semblance of humour, but none of the passion.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"Everything."

He meant it. He was sorry for the present and sorry for the past—sorry he wasn't good enough and never would be, and sorry that she loved him in spite of it.

"O'Neill was my problem," she said.

"And Strickler was mine."

"What happened to him? Strickler, I mean."

"He's gone," Michael replied.

"Did you kill him?"

At the end of her question, Fiona's eyes flicked up. As he met her gaze, Michael hoped his own studied blankness would both dissuade further questions and tell her what she needed to know.

"And Diego?" she asked.

"You should try to sleep," he replied.

Fiona blinked her gaze away, head sinking into the pillow. "I'm too tired."

Michael was very familiar with what it felt like to be too tired to sleep. But it was also clear that sleeping wasn't the only thing Fiona was tired of. In the wake of recent events, Michael was tired of many of the same things she was—including arguments, lies, secrets, and the weight of the past.

Without giving himself a chance to think twice, Michael stood up. "I'll be right back."

Once again making use of his perfect memory of the house's every creaky floor board and stubborn hinge, Michael made a quick, quiet trip from the spare room to the garage and back, returning one of the two boxes his mother had asked him to look through the day before, when she'd still been planning to sell the house.

He sat down at the foot of the bed near the shape of Fiona's feet and set the box next to him. Fiona pushed herself up on the pillows, enough to peek over the lip of the box. Her eyebrows puckered at the objects that greeted her. "Model airplanes?"

"My mom wanted me to go through these boxes," Michael explained. "It's stuff from when I was a kid."

Michael reached through the tangle of airplane wings, toy guns, and half-finished circuit boards to retrieve the item he was looking for: a trophy with a gold steering wheel framed by a pair of sharp-edged gold wings, mounted on a dark wooden base.

"Here."

He handed the trophy to Fiona. She accepted it with her good hand, fingers running over the inscription as she read it.

"Frank Westen, First Place, Smithson Memorial."

"My dad used to race stock cars," Michael told her. "He wasn't very good at it. He only won that race because the top three cars knocked each other out."

"And you're showing me this because…?"

Michael took back the trophy and raised it to his face, placing the gold wing on the right side into the scar below his left eye.

Fiona's face darkened. "How old were you?"

"Six," he replied, lowering the trophy and returning it with ironic gravity to its rightful place amid the pile of junk.

"Why?"

"He didn't need a reason."

"But you do."

"Yeah."

Michael wanted to believe the difference more than he currently did; when he blinked, he saw flashes of Strickler's blood on his hands, and Fiona's cheek red with pain, her eyes hot with tears.

"Why are you telling me this now?" Fiona wondered.

Michael lifted the box to the floor, and then used his foot to push it under the bed.

"You asked," he said. "A few days ago, after we…"

He'd always had trouble naming his physical intimacy with Fiona. Describing it as sex or fucking seemed too crude, yet he was just as incapable of calling it love.

Fiona's eyes fell. "I didn't think you'd remember."

"I remember," he assured her.

Fiona was once again studying her fingers on the comforter as she said, "I never had my own room growing up. Until Claire was born, I shared with Sean. Then I shared with Claire, until… After that, it was time to go."

"How old were you when you left?" Michael asked.

"Eighteen. You?"

"Seventeen."

"I haven't slept in my mother's house since."

"Me neither."

"Until now."

She looked up, and Michael looked back. He studied her eyes, her posture, and the lines around her mouth, trying to decide if he understood.

Sometimes, he knew exactly what Fiona wanted. When they were working, they slipped into an almost magical synchronicity. When he was naked and needful with Fiona's hard curves twisting and tensing in his hands or under his weight, that synchronicity could be just as strong, and even more magical. Fiona never needed him to hold back, and never wanted him to. Instead, she wanted everything, and made him want to give it to her, even things he held dear, like his autonomy, and his self control. Yet between work and sex, when his heart wasn't racing and his life wasn't on the line, he'd always struggled to read her. He knew how to excite her and please her, and the best ways to use his skills in concert with hers to get the job done. But he didn't truly know how to make her happy, not without pretending to be someone else.

There were times, though, when their chemistry penetrated the quiet moments between crises and climaxes. The part of Michael that felt most alive in Fiona's presence very much hoped the present moment was one of those times, because he was fairly certain Fiona was inviting him to bed.

Every rational fibre of his being told him to decline the invitation. Two men were dead, and Fiona and her brother had nearly joined them, all because he couldn't manage the quandary of Fiona's closeness. But even as the rational part of him pictured standing up, flicking off the light, and walking out the door, his hands were busy undoing his belt and the buttons on his shirt.

Once he was down to his undershirt and boxers, Michael slipped into bed on the side by the window. Fiona laid on her good side facing the door while he laid on his back, close enough to feel her warmth, but not quite close enough to touch it.

"If I hadn't found out…" Fiona began. "Would you have told me?"

Michael's heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the window and recalled the escape route he'd mapped there so many years ago, from the window ledge to the drainpipe and onto the roof of the garage.

"I don't know," he admitted.

In the quiet that followed, it occurred to him that they'd moved the drainpipe several months before, after Sam had exploded the sunroom.

"Where will you go?" he asked.

The sound of his own voice surprised him; the question sounded strangely rhetorical, as though he were asking himself as much as her.

"I don't know," Fiona replied.

The next minutes were as tense as any that Michael had spent in that room and that bed, wondering where the next attack would come from, while knowing that, no matter how much he thought and planned, he'd always be unprepared. Yet the choices were different than they'd been twenty-five years before. Now, the window was still at his left, and the door was still at his right. But Fiona was between them both, so close he could feel the beat of her pulse through the mattress and hear her muffled breath against the pillow.

Michael's own heart raced fast enough to hurt a moment before he committed to the only truly possible escape. Trapped between death and survival, he rolled toward Fiona's warmth.

He contemplated her spine and the texture of her tangled auburn hair before he touched them, marveling at the sight of his hand filled with something that had seemed impossible to grasp mere minutes before. Fiona laid very still as his fingers wove through her hair's wavy knots to the curled tips. As he gently swept her hair aside to reveal the nape of her neck, her breath was quick but steady under his fingertips, her pulse beating a high, even rhythm. Michael lingered in that rhythm as he fingered the soft roots of her hair, the wisps of cinnamon brown that weren't dyed or bleached by the Miami sun. When he inhaled her scent at the spot where her hair met her neck, she smelled like cordite, antiseptic, and sweat. She also smelled like the ocean.

"Michael…"

Before she'd finished whispering his name, he was already granting her unspoken plea, hands sliding down her back to the hem of her tank top. He peeled the fabric carefully up her spine to her neck, then scooped it over her head and down her shoulders. Fiona shifted to help him, then gave him enough space to slip out of his own white undershirt. Finally, they were nearly as close as they wanted to be, Fiona's bare back molded to his bare chest while her shorts mingled with his boxers, her firm thighs pressed tight against his groin. With his index finger resting in the puckered dent of her belly button, he buried his face in her hair, smelling, and remembering.

Sometime later, Michael woke up to one of his favourite sights in the entire world: the mostly naked backside of Fiona Glenanne. She was sitting upright in the bed with her face and bare breasts pointed toward the closed door, the first light of the day laying yellowish stripes across the planes and angles of her back and shoulders. Where the light touched her hair, it fuzzed the edges with glints of red.

Michael experienced a brief, anxious case of déjà vu until Fiona turned and greeted him with a small, bright smile, made brighter by the warmth of the dawn.

"Sorry," she said. "You were getting distracting."

Michael encountered his distraction for himself as he shifted onto his back and pushed himself upright. McBride might have made a joke about the fittingness of his body's seeming reversion to teenagerdom; the joke would segue into a flirtatious challenge that Fiona, despite her wounds and weariness, would find a way to meet. But Michael Westen wasn't willing or able to move so quickly from pain to pleasure; in the first light of the present day, his fears had returned to keep him honest.

"How's your arm?" he asked.

"Better than my head."

"Do you want some more pills?"

"I'd prefer a yogurt."

Michael smiled inwardly, recalling a time when Fiona had hated yogurt.

"I could go to the—"

"But I'll settle for the pills. And some water."

Michael kicked his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. He took his time buttoning his shirt and slipping into his chinos, hoping to calm his distracted body before venturing back into the main thoroughfares of his mother's house. He was mostly successful, though the spectacle of Fiona's unselfconsciously naked breasts and her hint of a playful smile stirred a brief, bitter nostalgia for the relative carelessness of McBride.

With the bedroom door cracked open, he inspected the hallway, paying special attention to the slightly open door of his mother's room. Though she may have been listening, his mother didn't appear, allowing Michael to return quickly with a glass of water and two blue pills. He handed both items to Fiona as he resumed his seat in the wicker chair next to the bed. While he'd been gone, Fiona had crawled back into bed, but was propped up enough to let her swallow the pills and several sips of water.

In the lull that followed, Michael stared at his hands resting on his knees, and then asked the same question he was asking himself. "What now?"

As though it was the most obvious thing in the world, Fiona replied, "It's still early."

And it was was obvious. For once, Michael knew exactly what she wanted—because he wanted it, too. Without another word, Michael slipped back out of his clothes and into bed, where he sighed into the press of Fiona's cheek on his chest and the weight of her injured arm across his ribs.

Fiona fell asleep quickly, surrendering to her painkillers and exhaustion. But Michael remained awake, looking up at the popcorn ceiling but seeing somewhere else.

He'd laid with Fiona's body draped across his many times, in many different beds. After Jimmy O'Connor's New Year's party, they'd laid that way in Fiona's brass bed under a quilt stitched by her grandmother. Then, too, Fiona had slept while he'd remained awake—thinking, and scared of his own thoughts.

Michael could still remember the tickle of Fiona's sticky hair on his bare skin and the boozy dampness of her breath against his neck. He also remembered how, even in sleep, Fiona's tiny fist had stayed curled against his chest. At the time, it had struck Michael as a strangely protective gesture, very unlike the woman he'd known an hour before, who'd thrown his body against the wall and herself against his body, wrenching kisses from his lips and trying to make him beg. That Fiona had been fearless, but the Fiona who slept with her hand in a fist was vulnerable—more vulnerable than Michael had ever seen her, or imagined she could be. Realizing that, Michael had suddenly been scared in a way he hadn't been when Fiona had cocked a loaded revolver in his gut, or when her brothers had watched him leave the dancehall with the sister that nobody fucked with drunk and practically undressing him on the cold January street. Partly, he'd been scared because he'd been undercover and engaged to another woman, and had never meant to end up in Fiona Glenanne's bed once, let alone often. But Fiona's fist against his chest had also scared him because he'd understood it, and knew that he always would.

Just as he'd done a decade before, Michael kept his thoughts to himself as he wrapped his arm around Fiona's shoulders and pulled her deeper into his body, determined to hold her close until the day made him stop.

**~END~** (for now...)

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**A/N:** I'm hoping you'll grant some artistic license with a few of the practical details in this one. Among other things, I'm pretty sure that in the episode, Michael uses the H&K to shoot Strickler; it's also pretty unclear how much time is supposed to have passed between the scene where Fiona gets shot and the last scene at Madeline's house. But hopefully these and other possible diversions are worth it :)

Next: the aftermath of these events from Fiona's perspective...


	9. Long Way Back, Part II

**This chapter continues from after the last one, taking place between "Long Way Back" and "A Dark Road" (Season 3, Episodes 9 and 10)**

* * *

Fiona woke up to a sight she was starting to hate: the satin white wall of the Coral Gables safe house where she'd been holed up for four long days. The unwelcome sight of the wall was followed by something she hated even more: the throb in her shoulder that preceded a tide of nausea. As she'd done every morning for the past four days, she shuffled to the edge of the bed and fumbled for the glass of water on the nightstand. She took two quick sips to banish the imaginary taste of food and another to swallow two white ovals of Percocet. The pills wouldn't help her nausea; that meant she'd have to force herself to eat something.

With a groan, she shucked the white sheets off her body and kicked her feet over the side of the bed. She had to check the clock to know the time; the second story bedroom had an ocean view, but she'd been sleeping in the main floor bedroom, whose only window faced the house's own garage. When Michael had suggested the room, she'd protested loudly, declaring that if she had to be laid up and hiding out, she'd risk getting hit by a trick shot from the world's greatest sniper to wake up looking at the sun and turquoise waves. She'd backed down after Michael had threatened to enlist Sam's help to patrol the grounds while she slept. It may have been an idle threat, but Fiona hadn't been willing to take the chance. With a killer stare and an angry huff, she'd gathered up her duffel bag with her good arm and marched into the room she currently occupied.

The digital clock by the bed said it was 7:18 pm. As had become the norm, she'd slept away much of the day. Not that it mattered. When she was awake, she was bored, and when she wasn't bored, she was frustrated. Fiona hated being hurt. She hated the idleness and the constant reminders of her weakness. The stitches in her shoulder and the lingering effects of her concussion made everything difficult, from getting out of bed to making coffee and taking a shower. She also detested taking painkillers. Even small doses peppered her sleep with strange dreams and made the waking world dull and lifeless, as though she were swaddled in the too-soft layers of a protective cocoon.

Michael was just as bad at feeling weak, but better at being hurt and deprived. Michael could survive for weeks in a hole in the ground with nothing but field rations and a magazine, and still be grateful for the magazine. Fiona had done similar things when she'd had to, back when she'd been an aspiring guerilla fighter learning the ropes from her older brothers and cousins. But that had been a long time ago. Now, she liked to think she was above such things—that she'd earned the right to practice a more refined vigilantism, in which she sometimes had to lie in muddy sniper's perches and skitter through the dirt wiring bombs to greasy engines, but was able to retire to a multi-jet shower, a Japanese silk robe, and something better than beer or homemade whisky. Michael would claim he'd never grown accustomed to such comforts, but Fiona didn't believe him. Michael might live in an illegal, un-air-conditioned industrial loft, but it was the cleanest industrial loft she'd ever seen. It also had a closet full of designer suits and a bathroom stocked with a carefully curated selection of grooming products, only some of which related to various covers.

During the past four days, Michael's conviction he could be fine with less had been making her at turns angry and nearly crazy. Since the morning five days ago when he'd invited her into his childhood bedroom and held her until long after the sunrise, Michael hadn't touched or even looked at her with anything resembling desire. For four nights, he'd been sleeping on the couch rather than joining her in the bedroom, and had only lain his hands on her body to change the dressing on her stitches. Then, though his tone and his hands had been gentle, that was all they'd been; as she'd sat on the counter of the bathroom sink with her thighs spread open and her shoulders thrust back, Michael had only had eyes for her wound and the various disinfectants, tapes, and bandages he'd used to clean and wrap it.

The only other time they'd regularly interacted had been over food. Michael had made her more meals during the past four days than he had throughout the past two years. As she tested her arm and examined the darkening sky above the garage through the bedroom's only tiny window, Fiona could tell he was at it again; she could hear the echo of pans in the kitchen and smell something that would have intrigued her if she'd felt at all like eating. Michael was good at almost everything he put his mind to, and cooking was no exception. But his skills had been lost on her while she healed; besides her nausea, even her tongue felt dull, unable to enjoy the things she usually liked and unenthusiastic about everything else.

Yet on its own, Michael's cooking was a nice gesture, and a nice break from his otherwise determined asceticism. As was the house, which was a step up from the safe houses they sometimes employed. The house was fully furnished in a contemporary style, with all the standard features of a multi-million-dollar Miami property—five bedrooms, four baths, a state-of-the-art home theater, and a secluded backyard pool. Michael had scammed it from a newbie real estate agent by suggesting the name of a privacy-obsessed minor celebrity who wanted to try before buying. For both Michael and the non-existent celebrity, privacy was a major selling point; the house was one of four foreclosures on the block, meaning that most of the nearby properties were empty.

Though Michael had kept her away from both the pool and the ocean-view bedrooms, Fiona had been making good use of the home theater, catching up on all the soap operas and reality shows she didn't usually have the time or inclination to watch. She was now well-versed in the ongoing love affairs and betrayals of both the English and Spanish-language soaps, and had developed opinions about who should win _Tough Enough_ and _Hell's Kitchen_. Michael had rarely joined her in the spacious living room. Most of the time, he'd been not-so-subtly avoiding her. In the morning, he'd make sure she was set for breakfast and then leave for a long run that doubled as surveillance. And in the evening, he'd typically make small talk over dinner before retiring to a seemingly endless array of minor projects; Fiona was sure that his favorite guns had never been cleaner, and that the Charger had never run smoother.

Fiona wasn't entirely certain how Michael had become her sole caregiver, or how long the arrangement was scheduled to last. For their first night in the safe house, they'd been joined by Sam and Sean. Sean had left the following day, insisting, against all evidence to the contrary, that he was fit enough to be crammed into the belly of a cigarette boat headed for the Bahamas, where he'd be able to board a plane bound for Ireland via Newfoundland. There'd been some discussion of Sam staying on after Sean left, but since then, Fiona had only seen Michael. Michael's was the first and only face she saw when she woke up in the morning, and the last one she saw before going to bed; for three days, they'd only had each other, with no interruptions or visitors, no crises or desperate clients banging down their door. There'd been times when Fiona had dreamed of such things—when she'd fantasized about all the fun and trouble she might get into with Michael all to herself for days on end in a house with at least five mattresses and many more tables, chairs, showers, and baths. So far, though, the reality had been laughably unlike the fantasy.

Michael's distance would have been grating under any circumstances, but Fiona had rarely needed to feel grounded in Michael's body as badly as she'd needed it during the four days he'd been so determinedly denying it. Fiona was used to dealing with uncertainty, in her relationship with Michael and in general. Yet even for her, the present accumulation of uncertainties was nearly overwhelming. Fully a third of her personal effects had already been shipped to a country where she was no longer welcome; the rest of her things were in boxes that could still stay or go. Even though she'd been cut off from Ireland, most of the rest of the world remained open to her; she had plenty of old contacts in New York and Western Europe, and plenty of new contacts in South America and the Caribbean. Michael's current plans were similarly unclear. Although the deaths of Strickler and Diego spelled a major setback in his quest to resolve his burn notice, Fiona didn't know if that setback would discourage him or motivate him—whether it would make him more cautious or propel him into even more dangerous deals with even worse people. In the midst of it all, there was the fact she and Sean had almost died. There was also the less discussed fact that Michael had almost died, too.

Watching multiple bullets rip through Sean's body had been bad enough. But in the space of the same thirty seconds, Fiona had also been forced to witness a vision of Michael's death. More than once, her fuzzy mind had been jolted awake by her memory of the scene, Michael's body going rigid with shock before collapsing against a marble pillar and crumpling into a helpless pile. For hours after those awful moments, Fiona had endured O'Neill's taunts and fists without knowing if Sean and Michael were alive or dead. For a while, she'd had faith. She knew both men well enough to know what they were capable of, including what they were capable of surviving. But when O'Neill's men had started loading her onto the boat that would take her to Ireland and a prime spot on the auction block, that faith had wavered. As she'd stood on the dock and looked toward the shore, she hadn't seen Michael racing to her rescue. In that moment, Fiona had realized that she'd expected Michael to save her, and that she didn't know how she'd survive if he didn't, because that would either mean that he didn't love her, or that he was dead. A moment later, Michael had saved her, with more than a little help, as usual, from her own recklessness. But the memory of her doubt and dependence remained to haunt her Percocet dreams.

Suddenly hungry for movement if not food, Fiona turned away from the window, heading for the bathroom down the hall. There, she relieved herself and then washed her hands and face at the sink. As she raised her wet face to the mirror and wiped it dry, she inspected her pale skin and stringy hair, which was tied back in the same messy ponytail she'd slept in. She hadn't showered since the day before, and she felt it; her skin seemed stale, as though she'd taken on the texture of the bed sheets. Though she'd certainly looked better, she'd also looked worse—like during her guerilla days, when she'd often gone for days without ready access to indoor plumbing.

Thinking about those days made her think about Sean. Back then, she and her brother had been close. Sean had always been the brother who was most like herself—aggressive with a romantic streak, quick to anger as well as forgive. Yet before he'd showed up at her door to announce that O'Neill had her address and an assault team en route, Fiona hadn't seen her favorite brother in more than three years. At first, she'd been glad to see him. That gladness had lessened the longer Sean had stayed. Sean still thought she was the girl she'd been, the one who'd threatened to take on the whole British army to avenge her sister, and who'd once broken her leg jumping off the roof of the barn just to prove she wasn't afraid to fall. Parts of that girl were still with her. But were supplemented by other, newer parts that Sean hadn't had a chance to know. Working with her brother for the first time in nearly a decade, Fiona had been annoyed by his impulsiveness and suffocated by his superiority. While Sean didn't trust anyone besides himself who wasn't kin, Fiona had come to trust Michael and Sam more than she'd ever trusted her any of blood relatives, including Sean.

She couldn't think about Sean without thinking about Ireland. Fiona was surprised by her own apathy about the loss of her home. She knew she should be angry, yet whatever anger she did feel was overwhelmed by a stronger sense of relief. As she'd said to Michael moments before O'Neill's team had smashed the window with a grenade, her friends and family in Ireland didn't know her anymore. And that meant that her home was no longer her home. Fiona wasn't sure if she had a new home, but she did know that the thought of not returning to Ireland hurt less than the prospect of leaving Miami had done.

Right up to the moment when she'd decided to leave, Fiona had prayed that Michael might do something—anything—to convince her to stay. At the time, he'd fallen short. Since then, he'd done better. Though she didn't have all the details, Fiona knew Michael had killed Strickler. She also knew it was the first man Michael had killed in some time, and that killing meant more to Michael than it did to most men for whom killing was a part of life. Strickler had been a mess of Michael's own making, but that didn't change fact that Michael had sacrificed part of himself to save her. Nearly a decade before and many times since, Michael had chosen his job over her; five days ago, he'd finally chosen her. That choice meant something, and was even humbling, enough that Fiona was almost willing to forgive all the mistakes leading up to it. But to do that, she needed Michael to reaffirm exactly what her own sacrifices were for. So far, he hadn't been willing or able to that, and time was running out; the longer he treated her like an invalid who was also a stranger, the more she doubted his actions had been motivated by anything other than guilt.

Before leaving the bathroom, Fiona contemplated showering, or at least heading back to the bedroom to change. She was wearing a version of the same outfit she'd been wearing for days: a thin tank top worn accompanied by a pair of brief sleep shorts; her most striking accessory was the large-ish white bandage that covered the stitches on her left bicep. With a mental shrug, she decided against both the shower and a change of clothes. She was comfortable enough, and there was no point in trying to impress Michael, since the man who'd killed for her a few days before no longer seemed capable of noticing her skin or curves, regardless of hygiene or what she was wearing.

She followed the smell of cooking to the kitchen, where she found Michael standing over the brushed steel stove with a red dish towel slung over his shoulder, peering under the lid of a large, steaming saucepan. He was wearing what had become his own typical outfit: black flip-flops, a pair of broken-in jeans, and what looked like a brand new, long-sleeved white T-shirt. The jeans were loose but the shirt was tighter, hugging his chest and biceps as he lifted the pan off the heat and tossed the contents with a long-handled wooden spoon. He looked at home in the well-appointed kitchen, though of course that was one of his skills; Michael was able to fit in almost anywhere, as long as he was playing a role. Briefly, Fiona wondered if that's what he thought he was doing—playing the role of a too perfect caregiver as he'd once played the role of a too perfect boyfriend.

Michael glanced over his shoulder as she entered the room, his blue eyes giving her a quick once-over that, as usual, had little to do with lust. When he looked at her, his face bore the same expression he'd been wearing for days, and which had been infuriating her for almost as long—concerned and wary with an undercurrent of apology.

His voice was blankly innocent as he asked, "Did you have a good sleep?"

"I guess," Fiona offered, hauling herself up onto one of the grey suede bar stools at the shiny white kitchen island facing the stove.

"How's your arm?"

"Hurts like there's a hole in it."

Michael acknowledged her quip with a nod as he turned back toward the stove and began transferring the contents of the pan onto two white plates.

"What did you make?" she asked.

"It's Iranian," he replied. "A friend taught me how to make it a while back."

It wasn't lost on her that Michael had left out the details of where he'd learned to cook the dish, and from whom. Fiona knew that much of Michael's past would always be like that—vague when it wasn't completely secret. She could never quite decide how much it mattered; she didn't mind Michael keeping a few secrets, so long as she got to keep some of her own.

In a single fluid motion, Michael swept the plates off the counter by the stove and onto the kitchen island. The dish was already brilliantly multicolored, with sparkling white and golden-brown rice blended with carrots, nuts, and some sort of dried red berries. But Michael added additional color before sliding the plates toward her, sprinkling them with more nuts and juicy pomegranate seeds.

Fiona blinked at her plate before picking up her fork, surprised and a bit intimidated by the dish's unexpected intricacy, and worried her rebellious stomach wouldn't let her enjoy it.

"It looks good," she offered, failing to sound as enthusiastic as she knew she should be.

If Michael heard her tepid enthusiasm, he pretended not to notice, wordlessly circling the island to take the seat and plate next to hers.

Fiona took a deep breath, and forced herself to try a forkful of the dish. She was pleasantly surprised when the mix of tart and savory flavours cut through her tongue's dullness, enough to make her want a second forkful.

"The Heat are playing Cleveland tonight," Michael observed.

"Oh?"

"Do you wanna watch it?"

Fiona chewed slowly as she tried to guess Michael's angle. She'd rarely heard him express an interest in any type of sporting event, let alone a basketball game featuring the supposedly overrated Dwyane Wade.

"With you?" she asked.

"If you want," he replied, a little too nonchalant.

Fiona finished chewing, then took her time swallowing.

"I guess," she said again, matching his studied nonchalance.

Michael gave another small nod of acknowledgement before returning his attention to his plate.

For a while, they both attempted to concentrate on their food, though Fiona was more focused on trying not to hear the silence or the sound of her own chewing. She attempted to distract herself by letting her eyes survey the kitchen, but returned quickly to the conundrum of Michael, who'd somehow managed to cook an entire meal while keeping the sink and all the counters almost spotlessly clean. From the spotless kitchen, Fiona looked down at her beautiful meal and then across at the profile of the handsome man who'd made it for her, who was as oblivious as she'd predicted of her bra-less tank top and brief shorts. She'd never really considered the possibility of she and Michael becoming bored with each other, yet at present, that boredom was palpable. The scene had all the drama of a too-comfortable marriage, but without the sunny comfort of the honeymoon period that should have preceded it.

As she continued to study Michael's profile, Fiona found her eyes drawn to the back of his neck, to the tip of the yellow bruise left by the impact of Thomas O'Neill's beanbag rounds. And suddenly, nothing made sense—not the spotless kitchen, or the delicious food, or the oblivious, handsome man sitting next to her, who was acting as though the world hadn't almost ended, and might still do so at any moment. Her heart began to thud as the silence she'd been trying not to hear became deafening, and then intolerable.

Fiona dropped her fork and declared, a little too loudly, "We don't live here."

Michael's eyes shot across to hers. He swallowed carefully as he lowered his own fork. "I know."

"And I don't need you to babysit me."

Her cheeks darkened with embarrassment at her protest, which sounded childish and petty even to her own ears. She maintained her gaze by reminding herself that Michael's distance had helped her feel that way.

Her determination quickly overwhelmed Michael's; his eyes dropped to his plate before drifting away toward the walls. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Whoever killed Diego—"

"Has been off the grid."

"For now."

Fiona made a small, humorless sound. "You do realize—people try to kill me more often when you're around than when you're not."

"I have _always_ known that."

Michael's suddenly dark expression matched the edge in his voice. It was the strongest emotion he'd showed in days, and Fiona wanted more—wanted to split open the bored tension and confront the uncertainty she shouldn't have allowed to linger for so long. But before she could return his passion, Michael once again backed down, eyes wandering back to the cupboards.

His next words were fully ensconced in his earlier nonchalance. "We shouldn't have to stay here much longer. Sam's been watching your place and the loft, and they've both been clean."

"Great," Fiona ironized. "I guess I'll unpack a pen and paper and make a list of the places I'm not on a wanted list."

"Okay."

"Okay?" she echoed, incredulous.

"I can't stop you from going," he observed.

"You could try."

She'd hoped to provoke another crest of passion, but instead, Michael affixed her with a version of the same expression he'd had when she'd entered the room—his eyes pleading and apologizing for everything and nothing, seeking a forgiveness she wasn't ready to give.

Fiona bit back her own threatening surge of anger in favor of a long, exasperated sigh. She knew from experience there was little point in trying to argue with Michael when he was so determined not to participate.

"I'm not hungry," she stated, climbing down from her bar stool. "I'm going to get some air."

Refusing to eat made her feel even more childish. But when she slid open the patio door and stepped out of the crisp air conditioning onto the pool deck, she did feel sick, the hot, sticky air landing like a suffocating hand on her face and chest. Within a few steps, she'd acclimatized, but a flutter of nausea remained, aggravated by the suddenly sour memory of the few forkfuls of food she'd managed to swallow.

The pool was a long kidney surrounded by white concrete and tall hedges shadowed by a smattering of palm trees. There were blue neon lights around the pool and hidden in the trees, evoking a coolness at odds with the actual temperature. Fiona walked to the furthest edge of the enclosed space and looked up at the evening sky above the close-but-invisible ocean. The sun had set, but the shapes of the shifting clouds were still faintly visible in the darkness.

Each of the places Fiona had lived had been on or near the same ocean. Yet in each place, the ocean looked different. Off the southern coasts of Ireland, the ocean was dark, angry, and cold, while in New York, it was less angry, but just as dark. In Miami, the ocean was sometimes angry, but never truly dark, the deep ultramarine of night never more than a prelude to the turquoise of the day. When she'd been determined to leave Miami, Fiona had known that she'd miss that turquoise terribly, just as she'd miss the sound of the wind in the palm trees and even the sticky heat that she'd hated for a week before accepting it, realizing it was part of the texture of the place just like the rainy season was part of Ireland and every kind of weather was part of New York.

But on any continent or coast, the sky above the ocean was always the same—big, endless, and every shade of blue. Michael's eyes had always been more like the sky than the ocean, in their unchanging changeability and occasional, blinding clarity.

She shook her head to clear it as she turned toward the pool, but the respite was brief; somehow, she always found herself returning to Michael. As she studied the neon lights fanning out into the faintly burbling water, it occurred to her that she'd never gone swimming with Michael, and probably never would. Try as she might, she couldn't picture Michael swimming for fun; even in childhood, she could only imagine him learning to swim to make sure he never drowned.

She was still transfixed by the water when she heard the hiss of the patio door, heralding the arrival of the subject of her tumultuous thoughts. She followed Michael with the corner of her eye as he performed a visual inspection of the premises, scanning the trees and searching for unexpected lights in the neighboring houses. Fiona knew she should have done her own inspection, but that would have defeated the purpose of her action; she'd gone outside because she'd known it was stupid, and because she'd known it would frustrate the man who was currently frustrating her. Yet as she watched Michael's slowly deliberate movements from one end of the pool to the other, his intensity conjured a pang of guilt. When she looked back through the patio doors into the kitchen, where Michael's dinner sat abandoned on the counter next to hers, the pang became a wave, ready to wash away one of her secrets.

"It was strange," she began, "Sean mentioning my accent. Because I actually lost it years ago. When I was in New York, it made more sense to be from nowhere."

She could feel Michael's eyes on her back, but he kept his distance, listening, and waiting.

"The first time I saw you again in Miami," Fiona continued, "I tried it out again, just to see if I missed it. But I didn't. Somehow, after all that time, it didn't feel real anymore."

In the long pause that followed, she turned from the house toward the pool, and halfway toward Michael. She was pleased to see her simple honestly had unsettled him, his weight shifting from one foot to the other below his thoughtfully flickering eyes.

He broke his silence to say, "When we first met, you sometimes called me McBride. Remember?"

"Yes."

"And I asked you to call me Michael."

He hadn't just asked her—he'd told her. Fiona remembered it clearly, though she'd been drunk at the time. On the cold January street outside Jimmy O'Connor's New Year's party, with her brothers looking on and a half can of Guinness still dangling from her fingers, Fiona had draped her hips across Michael's and jammed her free hand inside his stiff leather jacket, looking for the vulnerable texture of his ribs. Michael's skin had shivered deliciously at the intrusion of her icy hand, compelling her to drop her beer and slur, "I need ya, McBride. I need ya bad and I need ya now."

Michael's warmer hands had been climbing her back as he'd whispered against her hair, "Michael. My name is Michael."

"I'll call ya whatever I want," she'd declared, nipping his ear and digging her thumbs under his belt.

Suddenly, Michael had caught her wrists and her gaze, squeezing a bit too hard as he'd said, "No. Ya won't."

Instantly sober, Fiona had glared at him, trying to decide whether to curse him or kick him in the balls with the steel toe of her motorcycle boot. She'd been stayed by the unexpectedness of what Michael had said next.

"Please."

Before she'd quite understood what she'd been agreeing to, Fiona had found herself nodding. Michael had released her hands to seize her lips, and she'd kissed him back before hauling him into the cramped backseat of her cousin Ros's Nissan Micra. Sometime after that, they'd arrived at her place, where there'd been no more time for words, thoughts, or clothes. But the next day and for all the days after that, she'd never again called him McBride.

"I remember," Fiona confirmed.

Even before she'd known Michael's real name, Fiona had struggled with his contradictions. In the present, she looked at him and continued to struggle. The neon lights caught in his white shirt, which fairly glowed against the dark backdrop of the hedge and the sky. The rest of him was cloaked in shadow, his face a faraway mystery. Fiona tried to tell herself it didn't matter. For as long as she lived, Fiona knew she'd never lose her perfect memory of Michael's face—she'd never forget the pink curve of his lips or the shiny black of his hair, and especially the blue of his eyes, like the sky above the ocean in each place she'd called home. Yet as she assembled the familiar pieces, she became frustrated by how little they told her. And all at once, she was angry again—furious that in all the years she'd known him and after everything they'd been through, she didn't seem know Michael any better than when she'd still thought he was a small-time gangster from Kilkenny.

"Is that it?" she questioned. "That's all you have to say? About Ireland? About everything?"

She took several determined steps in Michael's direction while he took a single step back, stopped from going further by the edge of the pool.

"I'm—"

"Don't you _dare_ apologize," she warned. "I am so _sick_ of apologies."

Michael swallowed as she stepped into his space, not moving away, but not moving closer, either. His still-pleading eyes flickered up then dropped to the narrow space between their bodies, the fingers of his right hand opening and closing at his side.

"You could have died," he said quietly.

"That's happened before."

They were his words from a year before, when an assassin impersonating a bureaucrat had nearly killed him with a garrote.

"That's not the point," Michael grumbled, clearly remembering the reference.

"So what is the point?"

"I don't know," he said, still looking down at their feet on the concrete.

Fiona edged forward again, close enough to block Michael's view of the ground with the curves of her breasts, each deep breath threatening to brush her lonely nipples against his chest.

"You _do_ know."

"Fi…"

His pleading tone shot a bolt of hot rage up her spine. It ignited her cheeks and simmered in her empty hands as she took a step back, and then lunged. The forearm of her good arm slammed into Michael's chest while her foot hooked his ankle, tripping him back toward the pool.

Michael realized what was happening in time to mount a brief, futile challenge. His feet teetered precariously on the edge ahead of a moment of suspended animation, in which his arms just managed to balance the backwards momentum of his body. The impasse ended with Michael's right hand swinging back before shooting forward, seizing her bicep below her stitches. He clutched her to his chest as he finally succumbed to gravity, pulling her with him as he crashed into the deep end of the pool.

Fiona's chest collided with Michael's in the same moment his back and shoulders collided with the heated water that was barely cooler than the heavy air. A split second later, they were both underwater, where Fiona struggled to control her limbs that had instinctively tensed with shock and were hopelessly tangled with Michael's. Time slowed again as she realized: her limbs weren't just hopelessly tangled with Michael's—they were intentionally tangled. Michael was holding her down and close to his body, his hands cupping her thighs to pull her tight against his twisting hips. Fiona's tension dissolved in the friction of Michael's wet jeans against her bare legs, bleeding out into the water with which she was suddenly one. Her loosened hair and limbs were as liquid as Michael's shirt when she reached under and through its undulating waves to touch his skin and grip the slow-motion flex of his muscles.

She was kissing him before they reached the surface, all her anger subsumed by her determination to steal the air from his lungs and fight her way deeper into the already tangled mess of his arms and hands and wet jeans. When finally surfaced, her head still spun and her chest ached, but in the right way—the one she'd been missing for almost a week of days and just as many nights. As they bobbed in the water that was too deep to stand, Michael's legs kicked and wove through hers in a vain but valiant effort to do everything at once—to support her weight around his neck and keep his lips covering hers while trying not to drown. Their lip-locked faces dipped several more times into the water before they surrendered to the need for firmer ground.

As soon as her toes scraped the tiles, Fiona knotted her hands in Michael's shirt and began peeling it up his chest. Her teeth grazed his nipples while he was still struggling with his long sleeves, a provocation that caused him to stumble against the circular stairs near the railing. He grunted as his backside collided with the stairs in the shallow water, and again when she landed in his lap before shuffling down to attack his jeans. Her stitches yawned as she wrestled with the brittle, soaked denim and Michael's own provocations—like the fingers that slid under her top and into her shorts, down the back all the way to the front.

She watched her top and shorts float away as she settled her naked thighs around Michael's and ran two heavy hands down the slippery contours of his chest. She knew it was where he wanted her. Michael loved her on top as much as she loved to be there, watching his surrenders that were never really that; Michael was never truly powerless, and usually proved it. But now, even as she rocked with the hand that slipped in and out of the water to coax her tailbone, she knew it wasn't right. Now, she needed to feel the truth in his naked need that wasn't yet naked enough.

"I need ya," she purred, slipping into her old accent, the one she'd supposedly lost. "I need ya bad and I need ya now."

Michael blinked once, slowly, as she stroked him under the water. Her fingers teased him before her palm sank deeper, whole hand flexing as she said the word she knew he liked best.

"_Michael_."

Her next sound was a gasp as Michael's hands closed around her hips, lifting her roughly before knocking her back into the stairs. The stairs were hard and scratchy on the backs of her thighs; she groaned at that even as she moaned at the wet friction of Michael's gut climbing hers in the shallow water. Her heart throbbed there and in her arm, her stitches straining as she seized Michael's ass to pull him closer. But Michael braced his hands on the stairs by her shoulders and waited, testing her with his weight while looking for her gaze. Time slowed yet again as she met his familiar eyes, which were often cloudy, but sometimes clear. Now, they were clear enough for her to see herself reflected, her own eyes over-large in their convex mirror. And suddenly, Fiona remembered what Sean had said about Jimmy O'Connor's New Year's party—how Michael had looked at her like she was the only girl in the world.

Michael slid inside her while their eyes were still locked, eyelids fluttering when the water started to move around their hips. The water sloshed languidly along Fiona's stomach until it didn't—until it splashed up her sides and rang in her ears, crashing like waves in her thighs and squealing between the fingers that struggled for handholds in Michael's slick flesh. When she couldn't hold onto Michael, she flung her arms behind her to grip the stairs and the base of the metal railing, toes extended on the tiles to arch her back into Michael thrusts. Wave after wave, her eyes and fingers fought to hold on. But it was with numb fingers and half-lidded eyes that she finally watched Michael's beautifully needful face wiped clean by a smack of pleasure, and saw his water-slick muscles tense and then tremble with bliss. Fiona rode his surge of pleasure into a second wind, wrenching down hard on the railing to wrench Michael as deep as she could. She came with a breathless growl that covered a sound she imagined but didn't hear, as her shoulder tore open and sent a warmer, darker wetness streaming into the dappled water.

For a while, everything was wonderful. Then she was cold everywhere she didn't hurt, her arm burning in the tepid water while her face froze in the sticky air. Yet even the cold and pain felt good, so much better than the cocoon of her painkillers and the placelessness of sharing a home that wasn't.

While his wet, pulsing body was still heavy on hers, Michael kissed and caressed her cheeks and throat, smiling lips releasing a sigh against her ear. She felt rather than saw the moment he noticed her arm. His sated body went suddenly stiff as he withdrew his weight and a hand that was red with her blood.

"Did I—"

"No," she assured him, voice breathless and raspy through the slit of her frozen lips. "I did it, it's okay. It's okay..."

Michael's relief was obvious but cautious as he pushed his wet hair off his forehead and the rest of himself off her body. "Your stitches—"

"I know."

Fiona accepted Michael's hands and was glad that she did; as she made her way to her feet, her arm began to throb ahead of a fresh current of nausea that might have felled her if Michael hadn't been there to catch her, slipping an arm under her good shoulder above her breasts. She knew Michael would have carried her if she asked, but she didn't ask; he needed to know she wasn't helpless, even when she was soaking wet and trembling with blood seeping down her arm.

When they reached the main floor bathroom, Michael spread a towel across the wide counter top next to he sink and helped her onto it. As Fiona continued to wonder whether or how much Michael would retreat or engage, he retrieved a grey T-shirt and a pair of navy pajama pants from a hook on the back of the door. He pulled on the pants and then helped her with the shirt, working the sleeves slowly up her arms before stretching the collar over her head and rolling up the left sleeve to expose her dark, leaky bandage. It was one of Michael's shirts, but on her, it was oversized, covering her backside and pooling around her thighs. Fiona was happy for the extra coverage. In another time and place, she would have relished challenging Michael to focus on threading a needle with her naked nipples staring him in the face. But at the moment, the frigid air conditioning wasn't doing any favours for her already frozen flesh.

Blood dribbled onto Fiona's fingers as she held her wound and watched Michael wash the blood off his own hands, his left hand vigorously scrubbing the red stains on the palm and fingers of his right. When he'd finally finished with his hands, he wordlessly and efficiently assembled supplies, finding gauze and tape under the sink and reaching into the cabinet behind her head for the needle, thread, and disinfectant.

As he stretched for the top shelf, his breath hitched on a twinge of pain. Fiona blinked out of her fog to notice, for the first time, the dark purple bruises stretched across Michael's ribs probably-cracked ribs. The sight shocked her; she'd been so focused on the fact of Michael's distance, she'd been blind to some of its causes. All at once, she started seeing other things she'd missed, like the tired, red creases around his eyes; she'd assumed Michael had been sleeping on the couch, but it was also possible he hadn't been sleeping at all.

Quickly and almost desperately, Fiona laid a hand on Michael's chest, and kept it there as his skin twitched with another stifled intake of breath.

Michael placed the disinfectant on the counter and looked down at her hand on his body. Fiona's cheeks darkened with the recognition that she'd broken something in their unwritten contract—the part that said worry wasn't supposed to be expressed so directly or blatantly, and never in moments that didn't directly precede or follow a life-or-death crisis. Sometimes, Fiona was grateful for that contract; other times, it was a stranglehold. Long ago, she'd told Michael McBride that she never worried. At the time, it had been mostly true. But in the weeks that followed, her world would be rocked by the revelation that the man she loved was really someone else—and by the realization that she loved him anyway.

The longer Michael stared at her hand, the more impossible it became to remove it. Finally, when she was sure she'd pushed him away by reaching out, he leaned into her touch, stepping forward to brush her thigh with his hip. Fiona let her hand fall, understanding that she no longer had to fight or reach to touch him.

Fiona swallowed and flexed her jaw, searching for her voice. Michael came to her rescue with a false nonchalance that was suddenly welcome.

"The game starts in ten," he observed, dabbing disinfectant on a clean piece of gauze.

Fiona managed a hint of a smile. "Then you'd better work fast."

Michael acknowledged her smile with one of his own before reaching up to tend to her bandage. She hissed as the tape sucked free of her skin. Things got worse a moment later, when the disinfectant touched her stitches and burned through her skin to her blood.

"_Fuck_."

She said it the American way, which had a gutturalness she missed in her native brogue.

"Thought that's how you got into this mess," Michael teased.

Fiona narrowed her eyes at Michael's cocky smirk that was sexier than it should have been. Memories of a similar expression on the face of Michael McBride surged and then fizzled in the next dab of disinfectant. Her narrowed eyes scrunched shut and stayed that way as Michael began the stitches. The first stitches were always the worst; her skin pulled against the thread while her battered muscles screamed in protest at the pressure of Michael's fingers. Her right hand clenched on the counter while she tried not to think about how good that hand would feel closing into a fist, aimed right for Michael's cracked ribs.

She opened her eyes for the final stitches, watching Michael's deft fingers make a knot and cut the thread. When Michael lowered his hands, her long, relieved breath brushed her breasts against his shoulder. Michael's own breath was warm on her cheek as he swapped the needle for the disinfectant, his hip still sliding along her bare thigh. Fiona managed not to swear at the second dose of disinfectant, focusing instead on the subtle, ticklish kiss of Michael's nose in her hair. Her skin shivered with something other than cold as the thumb and fingers of his left hand grazed the underside of her knee, his right hand circling her whole arm to press the bandage flat.

She was almost sorry when he finally finished, but was too weary for many regrets. While Michael cleaned up, she closed her eyes and dropped her heavy head back against the mirror, breathing the scent of Michael's skin and the stronger smell of chlorine.

She'd lost track of time when Michael's voice penetrated her reverie. "The point was, I wanted to tell you."

Her eyes struggled open, but Michael was looking down, folding gauze and replacing it in a white paper box.

"Tell me what?" she asked.

"The truth."

"When?"

"When I didn't want to lose you."

He could have been talking about Ireland, a week ago, or a dozen times in between. Or maybe he was talking about all of the above—every time one of them had almost or actually lost the other, and made new cracks in two stout hearts.

"And now…?" she wondered.

Michael's lips had just parted to speak when he was interrupted by a loud gurgle from her empty stomach.

"You need more to eat," he observed.

"Yeah," she agreed, disappointed, but not unhappy; the night was still young, and the day far away.

Sometime later, Fiona lay sprawled on the blue velvet sofa, looking past the empty plates on the saddle brown ottoman to watch the final minutes of the Miami Heat's victory over the Cleveland Cavaliers. She was still swimming in Michael's shirt, which she'd paired with her favorite black silk sleep shorts. Michael was still shirtless, because she hadn't given him a chance to be anything else; after he'd joined her in the living room with the re-heated food, she'd eaten quickly and then made a home in his body, her cheek on his stomach below his injured ribs and her own injured arm draped across his outstretched legs.

Before the final buzzer sounded, LeBron James was already embracing Dwyane Wade, shattering any illusion of bitter competition. As Fiona watched the two star players hug and whisper secrets before erupting in laughter, it occurred to her they'd make a good team—power paired with finesse, efficiency with grace. She opened her mouth to ask Michael's opinion, which she was already prepared to refute. The question died on her lips when she realized he was asleep; his breathing was long and deep under her ear, his left arm limp and heavy where it outlined the shape of hers.

Fiona used the remote to turn off the TV, and then tried in vain to get comfortable, missing the drowsiness she'd hated for days.

She was unsettled by the fact that they hadn't settled anything. It was a familiar feeling, as familiar as the contours of Michael's body where she'd laid so many times before—like five days ago, after she'd nearly died, and after Jimmy O'Connor's New Year's party nearly ten years before that.

From those early hours of the first day of the year, Fiona remembered being lulled into a boozy slumber by the gentle rhythm of Michael's fingers in her lower back. She also remembered waking up too few hours later with a sharp pain in her bladder. After scrambling out of bed to relieve herself, she'd returned to the bedroom to find Michael still asleep. She remembered it because it had been unusual; Michael had always been one of the lightest sleepers she'd ever seen, capable of waking at the motion of a glance or the breath of a sigh. At the edge of the bed, Fiona had stared as though hypnotized at the rare spectacle of Michael's sleeping face, marveling at the dark fringe of his eyelashes on his pale cheek and the loose press of his full lips. Studying him, she'd thought he looked entirely too young and decidedly too careless—in general, but especially for all her doubts about the parts of him she didn't know and the flaws in the parts he did. Yet his too-boyish oblivion had also reminded her of herself—of the romantic streak that inspired her to leap with faith and feel safe in places that weren't.

In the present, Fiona shifted to get up, but was stopped by a reciprocal shifting of Michael's body.

In a sleep-gravelly voice, he said, "Don't go." His left hand squeezed her fingers as he added, "Please."

Fiona laid still for a long moment, weighing the words she'd been longing to hear and thinking about all the things she couldn't see—like the ocean, and Michael's face, and what was going to happen next. She wanted to feel sure, but needed more proofs. In the space of several heartbeats, she found two: she'd been sure of Michael's eyes the night he'd watched her dance in the New Year, and when his slippery flesh had pinned hers in the shallow water. Both images reminded her of something else Sean had said: people don't change so much.

She made a vow to call her brother more often as she threaded her fingers through Michael's, and squeezed back. Her lips moved against his skin as she said, "I am going somewhere."

"Where?"

"Upstairs—to the master bedroom."

"I'll carry you."

"Just follow me."

Later and for the first time in weeks, Fiona dreamed beginnings instead of endings, her cheek on Michael's chest facing the promise of turquoise days.

**~END~** (for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** Though it's not terribly important: the Lebron James/Dwyane Wade thing was meant to be a reference to LeBron's controversial Decision to join the Heat in 2010, which was something of an exciting Miami moment; LeBron hawked his special edition _Miami Vice_-themed sneakers in an ad with Don Johnson and everything :P

Though it's been fun hanging out in Season 3, I'm going to jump forward a bit for the next installment... 


	10. Mind Games

**Set a day after the end of "Mind Games," Season 5, Episode 3 (with references to "Bloodlines," Season 5, Episode 2)**

* * *

The night Michael asked Fiona to move in with him was wonderful in all the ways Michael had hoped it would be: Fiona's eyes had gone wide with a hint of sheen a moment before she'd said yes with a kiss, and then taken him to bed.

Everything they'd done to each other while Max's jazz CD had played and finally petered out on the new stereo should have made Michael exhausted and happy, and for a while, it had; he'd fallen asleep with only Fiona's body to cover him and strands of her disheveled hair stuck to his open lips. But he'd woken up too few hours later with a pounding heart and a certainty of impending doom, his lungs aching under Fiona's weight. His wide eyes had gone first to the double-bolted steel door before landing on his box of files—the ones that held four years of research on the people who burned him. Michael knew should have given the files to the CIA, but in that moment of semi-conscious, single-minded clarity, he'd also known why he hadn't, and that he never would.

The sun had been glinting in the window above the bed by the time Michael had fallen back into a restless sleep. He'd dreamed about receipts, account numbers, and the last spark of life in the eyes of the final man on the NOC list until Fiona had woken him with a rough elbow to the ribs, demanding breakfast and an in-depth discussion of where they'd install the shelf for her snow globes and store her extensive and occasionally exotic collections of clothes and weapons. Michael had rubbed his ribs and smiled, the memory of his sleepless night overwhelmed by the perfection of the silver sunshine on Fiona's careless nudity and the even-more-perfect thought that the morning was wonderful in all the ways he'd hoped it would be.

Two weeks had passed since that day. During that time, Michael had helped Fiona build new closets and hiding places for most of her shoes and guns, impersonated his father during an interrogation, met his first nephew, and rarely made it through the night without waking up reeling with half-remembered nightmares. Worse than his sleeplessness was the fact that his dreams had begun to color his waking world. Three days before, while he and Fiona had been shopping for drapes on Lincoln Road, he'd attacked a man armed with a teddy bear, knocking his un-resisting body against the wall before he'd realized his mistake. As Fiona had pulled him off the innocent, middle-aged father and begun to make excuses and apologies, Michael had been frozen in speechless shock, unsure of the year, the city, and even his own eyes and hands. His disorientation had passed quickly, but had returned in dreams that no longer seemed like dreams. The night after the teddy bear incident, Michael had jolted awake aiming his H&K P30 at the steel door of the loft, conflicting scenes flickering in his open eyes. He'd seen the door closed and locked in between the fireball of an explosion and a black-ops strike force that would shoot Fiona and take him alive, pulling a dark bag over his head and clamping his wrists and ankles with shackles that wouldn't leave his body for the rest of his sunless days. He'd also seen the door of his childhood bedroom, closed but uselessly locked against the sound and fury beyond it.

Now, it was 5:49 pm on Friday, and Michael was standing in the driveway of his mother's house with that same mother's attempt at tuna casserole moving reluctantly through his digestive tract, squinting into the sun as he watched his brother fight to close the overloaded trunk of a metallic blue Chevy Malibu. Nate's wife Ruth was sitting in the passenger's seat, busily filing and examining her nails while the baby slumbered obliviously in his car seat. Michael forced himself to remember that the baby had a name—Charlie. He also forced himself to remember that he was Charlie's uncle. The latter fact should have been impossible to forget; even through the sun-blurred windows of the sedan, the three-month-old Charlie already looked very much like Nate—and at least a little bit like himself.

Momentarily dislocated in time, Michael nearly started at the sudden closeness of Nate's voice at his side.

"Any big Friday night plans?"

"Not particularly," Michael replied, and it was true; for once, he didn't have any pressing jobs, and when he was conscious and thinking clearly, he was fairly sure no one was actively trying to kill him.

"Fiona'll probably be looking for you, though. Gotta say, bro—never thought I'd see you tied down."

"I'm not—" Michael stopped himself when he realized the defensiveness of what he'd been about to say. "Fiona has her own things going on," he amended.

"Every woman has her own things going on," said Nate, circling the car to the driver's side. "Doesn't mean they don't want you there at the end of a long week."

Michael wanted to observe the irony of his brother giving him relationship advice, but was silenced by the fact and the reason Fiona hadn't been present at the Friday afternoon lunch that even the usually recalcitrant Ruth had deigned to attend. Fiona hadn't been there because Michael hadn't asked her. And he hadn't asked her because of what had happened the night before. Michael had spent most of that night bent over his workbench looking for new patterns in scraps of paper he'd already memorized, barely hearing Fiona's pleas to come back to bed until he'd stopped hearing them altogether, because she'd stopped calling.

"I'll try to remember that," Michael promised. He swallowed before adding something he'd rarely said to his younger brother. "Thanks."

Nate paused with his hand on the car door, his typical wide-eyed bewilderment giving way to a glimmer of wisdom that was less typical, and more than a little unsettling. Over Nate's shoulder, Ruth had grown bored with her fingernails and looked ready to start honking the horn, Charlie's slumber be damned.

"Well," Nate declared, blinking free of own moment of dislocation. "We'd better take off. Ruth's got a shift at Magic City, which means I need a nap before a long night of being Mr. Mom—you know how it is."

"I really don't."

If Nate heard his brother's sarcasm, he deliberately ignored it. "Take care of yourself, bro."

Michael's tone was genuine when he replied, "You too."

Once the Malibu was safely out of sight, Michael's mother appeared in the house's open doorway. She flicked cigarette ash into her decidedly unhealthy flowerbed as she pronounced, "I _still_ can't stand that woman."

As Michael turned to face her, she added, "We can only hope Charlie takes after _our_ side of the family."

Michael made a show of checking the watch he'd already checked two minutes before. "Look at the time. I should—"

"Nate's right, you know."

Immediately, Michael regretted pausing to check his watch. Because he had to, he asked, "Right about what?"

"About you needing to take care of yourself."

"What did Nate tell you?"

"He didn't _have_ to tell me anything."

Michael looked at her until she admitted, "Fiona told me."

The unexpected revelation made him blink, and drop his eyes to his T-shirt. He wanted to ask what, exactly, Fiona had said, but couldn't—because it would show that he cared, and because there was a part of him that didn't want to know.

As his mother tapped more ash into the flowerbed, she said, "If you want something to help you sleep—"

"I'm fine," Michael interrupted quickly. "Really." He tried to sound convincing, but was dismayed by his seemingly limited control over the shape of his words.

"Then make sure you keep it that way."

Another, different son might have been comforted by the way the softness of his mother's eyes belied the gruffness of her tone. But for Michael, that softness was as unsettling as his brother's wisdom. As he bid a quick goodbye and retreated to his car, Michael heard the child he'd been bristling at the presumption of his mother's love, which had so rarely helped him and never kept him safe. Thankfully, he still had enough self-control to make sure that voice remained hidden—from his mother, if not from himself.

Michael took a circuitous route to the loft, avoiding the freeways in favor of the winding side streets he'd committed to memory during his years as a teenage car thief. He was driving the Infiniti G37 he'd been leasing since the resumption of his regular government paychecks and the explosion that hadn't quite destroyed the Charger. Michael had let Jesse choose the car, a concession to the younger man's incredulity at his insistence he didn't have a preference beyond a reliable engine, a manual transmission, and a decent-sized trunk. The Infiniti matched Jesse's glowing descriptions; it was quiet on the highway with a nice growl between second and third, and handled nimbly in close quarters. Yet despite his professed indifference, Michael missed the distinctive groans of the Charger and the challenge of coaxing its bulk around the same tight corners the Infiniti tackled with ease. He even missed the way the Charger's white steering wheel would rattle under his fingers when it pushed 65.

By the time he'd shifted into fourth on the first straightaway, Michael's thoughts had also shifted, from the perhaps irreparably damaged Charger to his equally damaged relationship with Fiona. They hadn't talked about the night before. The morning had been brief and deceptively tranquil before they'd gone their separate ways, he to a meeting with Max followed by a few hours of working on the Charger and a late lunch with his family, she to a spa appointment that was likely something else. Michael hadn't pressed for details, knowing that Fiona's white lies were often for his benefit, and that he'd always kept more secrets from her.

During the morning and throughout the day, Michael had tried to be grateful for the détente. But instead, the unease he'd felt over breakfast had clawed its way from the back of his mind to the front. Difficult nights followed by too-quiet mornings reminded him of too many other nights and mornings, with Fiona and long before her. It was a pattern he'd hoped to break by asking Fiona to move in with him. Yet against all his hopes and confirming too many fears, he'd followed that pattern to where he was now—avoiding Fiona and the first place he'd ever truly called home in favor of spending time with a fancy car he didn't even enjoy driving.

For Michael, sleepless nights weren't particularly unusual. They were, however, unusual when he was lying next to Fiona, at least on those nights when he'd willingly extended or accepted an invitation to be there. A decade ago, he'd slept as soundly as he'd ever done wrapped in Fiona's warmth, whether they were in his single bed with the squeaky spring or in her too-large bed wedged into her too-small bedroom, where any overly passionate embrace might send one or both of them careening into the wall. Despite the even-more-tumultuous nature of their relationship in Miami, Michael had often slept just as soundly within the heat and rhythm of Fiona's body, sated by the rightness of his limbs twined with hers and content in the knowledge there was a second gun under the pillow and another trusted set of eyes and ears watching the darkness and listening to the silence.

Yet during the past two weeks, Fiona's presence had made everything worse as often as it had made anything better. For every night Michael had been lulled to sleep by the strong, familiar pulse of Fiona's heart against his skin, there was another night he'd laid awake paralyzed by that same pulse, disturbed as much by his half-remembered dreams as by the thought of Fiona waking up, and seeing his struggle to manage them.

The better, rational part of him knew he shouldn't be afraid of looking weak in front of Fiona. In the ten years he'd known her, Fiona had already seen some of his worst and weakest moments. Fiona had seen him beaten, shot, and hurting; she'd watched him cry, bleed, and lie for days in a hospital bed dependent on nurses and her own strong shoulder to help him empty his bladder and move between the bed and a wheelchair. Amid those physical traumas and elsewhere, Fiona had also seen him make mistakes and disappoint people who deserved better, including herself. Fiona had seen all of those things, and forgiven him—not unconditionally, but honestly, and with a depth of love that could be humbling, frightening, and confusing, sometimes all at once.

Michael also knew, however, that Fiona's forgiveness presented its own challenges. Fiona didn't forgive with comforting words and her own apologies; instead, she forgave with new and increased demands upon his strength. Sometimes, Michael was eager to meet her challenges. But it was always hard; both of the times Fiona had devotedly guarded his broken body, she'd kicked him awake to air a litany of grievances, making plans and threats while he'd still been struggling to swallow instead of vomit.

Three nights ago, when he'd woken up pointing his H&K at an imaginary strike team, Fiona had very clearly been out of her element. That night, though Fiona's fingers and lips had been tender nuzzling his hair and the nape of his sweaty neck, there'd been a hint of frustration in her voice when she'd told him it was just another dream. After Michael had finally convinced himself to believe her, that frustration had disturbed him almost as much as his nightmare had done. Something in Fiona's words and tone had reminded him of the way a weary adult might speak to a child—or, to a man who'd lost his mind.

Fiona's presence had disturbed him even more when she'd woken up to find him bent over the files she'd thought he'd destroyed. Even after the incident with the imaginary strike team and the scene with teddy bear, Michael hadn't truly believed he might be crazy until Fiona had looked at him like he was. When he'd torn himself away from his files long enough to reassure Fiona he wasn't losing his grip on reality, the sight of himself in her eyes had left him barely able to reassure himself.

The summer sun had started to set by the time Michael finally pulled the Infiniti into the driveway next to Fiona's Genesis and climbed the rusted stairs to the loft's bomb-warped door. As he turned the key in the lock, there was a piece of him that hoped Fiona wouldn't be there—that despite the presence of her car in the driveway, she'd confirm what he'd said to Nate, and be busy with her own schemes and hobbies. But when he opened the door, there she was—sprawled across the crisply made bed just like she'd been so many times before, propped up on her elbows above the pages of a magazine with her bare feet kicking the air behind her head. She was wearing a creamed-colored, lace-trimmed romper that should have made her look her look childish, but didn't, something in the lean, hard muscles in her calves and arms and the frown that creased her lips revealing a bit too much of who she was—a woman who'd seen and survived everything the world could throw at her, and then kicked it in the crotch for good measure.

As usual, she looked at home in his bed. During Michael's first weeks in Miami, when he'd been so certain everything was wrong and no one was where they should be, Fiona's confident intrusions had often unnerved and even angered him; he'd hated the way she'd so easily accepted the loft as her home and Miami as his, not understanding or appreciating all the very good reasons he'd left. In the four years that followed, he and Fiona would fight as often as they fucked and nearly die a hundred times; once, they'd almost die in each other's arms. They'd also work together to save dozens of lives and bring down a massive, decades-old network of double agents. It would take all of that to convince Michael there might be as many good reasons to stay as to go, and to finally ask Fiona to share his space and his life—a life that was thoroughly unlike anything he'd ever imagined, yet also infinitely better, in no small part because Fiona was in it. As Fiona looked up from her magazine, Michael tried to remember that truth and everything he'd nearly lost before he'd found it, while trying even harder to ignore the frightening implications of the fact he needed reminding.

He offered Fiona a small smile of greeting before dropping his eyes and proceeding toward the kitchen. On the way, he walked past signs of the recent merging of their lives, and its lingering debris. Fiona's snow globes were displayed inside a new shelving unit where the workbench used to be, and half-full and unopened boxes were stacked and clustered along more than one wall, waiting to be sorted through, argued over, and finally integrated into his living space's erstwhile starkness.

Fiona shoved the magazine away from her face and herself off the bed to follow him. "You're later than I thought you'd be."

"Sorry. I had to put in some time at my mom's house, visiting Nate and Ruth."

"And Charlie, presumably."

"And Charlie," he agreed, wondering why he suddenly needed so many reminders about the basic facts of his life.

"You should have called. I could have come with you."

As Michael opened the fridge to retrieve a blueberry yogurt, he said, "I thought you'd prefer not to be subjected to that much of my family at one time."

Fiona shrugged as she leaned against the slatted table. "Family's family."

Michael watched her across the table while pretending to concentrate on his yogurt. He knew from experience that Fiona's family was hardly The Waltons, though they were also very unlike his own family. Where the violence in his family had been cruel and pointless, the violence in hers had been passionate and purposeful, united around a cause and the sometimes-painful love and loyalty it required.

Fiona nodded at his yogurt. "Didn't you eat at Madeline's?"

"Not more than I had to."

"You know, if _I_ hated cooking, _and_ I was bad at it, I think I'd stop trying."

"Clearly, you're not my mother."

"Clearly."

Their eyes met quickly, and parted awkwardly.

Fiona propelled herself away from the table to initiate the change of topic that they both suddenly needed. "Well, the _important_ thing is, you got here just in time."

"In time for what?"

"To make a decision. I got you two presents today, and you get to choose which one you want first."

"Okay..."

Fiona sashayed her way to the floor-to-ceiling window framed by square glass bricks on the South wall of the loft. From behind a stack of unpacked boxes, she pulled out a large ream of fabric with a loud print of interlocking green and yellow banana leaves.

Unfurling the fabric over her arm, she declared, "Behind door number one—our new drapes, which you get to help me hang."

Withholding his opinion of the tropical spectacle that was destined to consume almost an entire wall of his home, Michael asked, "And behind door number two...?"

Fiona dropped the drapes onto the nearest pile of boxes and walked back to the bed. Half-expecting a gun or a throwing knife, Michael blinked at the very different item she withdrew from under the pillow: a medium-sized, orange-yellow bottle.

Fiona cocked her hip and stoked the bottle like a Barker's Beauty as she said, "The home version of the massage you turned down the other day."

Michael took his time swallowing his final mouthful of yogurt, then just as slowly lowered his spoon. In the long moment he studied her, Fiona continued to pose, her thin, sharp index finger scraping down the length of the bottle and up again before swirling seductively around the cap.

What Fiona was suggesting wasn't her style. Fiona was a sensual lover, but not a particularly patient one. Once they started, she usually liked to sprint to the finish with an eye on the rematch. But that wasn't the only reason to be suspicious of her invitation. It didn't take three decades in intelligence for Michael to know he was being manipulated. Choosing the massage would mean admitting Fiona was right, and he was wrong—about his burn notice investigation, and about needing outside help to manage his nightmares. And that was something Michael wasn't ready to do, especially after learning that Fiona had betrayed his trust by discussing his mental state not only with his Sam and his brother, but also his mother.

Flashing a cool smile that he knew would annoy her, Michael said, "Let's do the drapes."

"Fine," Fiona agreed, her voice tightly sweet as she met his cool smile with one of her own. "But we'll need a climbing harness."

Michael's smile acquired a hint of rueful admiration as he realized it was what she'd been planning all along. Unnecessarily, he asked, "For you, or for me?"

"For me. Unless you have a ladder I don't know about...?"

"I'll get the harness."

While he retrieved a tower climbing harness and a spool of black nylon rope from a storage bin behind the wardrobe, Fiona assembled supplies—a cordless masonry drill, a measuring tape, two wall brackets, and a handful of screws, which she dropped into the breast pocket of her romper. When he handed her the harness, she accepted it wordlessly, and immediately but unhurriedly began putting it on. Michael eyed her progress as he attached a utility belt to his own waist and tied sturdy carabiners to each end of the rope. He wasn't sure if Fiona was trying to look enticing, but she did anyway. With skill and gusto, she cinched each fastening tight around a different bare or barely clothed body part, until the sharp edges of the straps dented her tanned flesh and the softer, padded back and seat caressed it.

When Fiona was done strapping herself in, she jammed the orange drill into her belt, completing a strange picture that was also exactly her. Her wavy auburn hair was loose and tumbling around her narrow but determinedly square shoulders, while the delicate edges of her white romper tangled in the severe black shapes and angles of the harness. The weight and bulk of the harness should have threatened to swallow her tiny frame, but didn't. Which made sense; for as long as Michael had known Fiona, she'd never been anything less than irrepressible.

Craning her neck, Fiona said, "I think the beam above the window should hold me."

Michael followed her gaze to the beam in question. "Are you sure?"

"No."

Knowing there was no point in arguing, Michael unspooled enough rope to reach the beam. With the weight of the carabiner to propel it, the rope found its way up and over the beam and down again into his hands.

He attached the carabiner to his belt before attaching himself to Fiona. Their eyes met as he snapped the clip onto the front of her harness, then pulled the rope taut across the beam. There wouldn't be a safety lock on the rope; if anything went wrong, only Michael's strength and weight would keep her from falling. The look they shared acknowledged the danger, and that it was the last moment to call it off—the last chance for one or both of them to back down from the dare they'd started. Neither of them did; Fiona was determined to make him take her weight, and Michael was equally determined to prove that he could.

Michael stepped back, filled his lungs, then heaved backwards on the rope. Fiona jerked into the air then climbed steadily with each slow, hand-over-hand drag. Once she arrived at the top of the window some twenty-five feet above the floor, Michael braced the rope with his foot, grateful to relieve the pressure on his arms and back. His muscles were tenser than he would have liked them to be, a state of affairs he blamed on the relative inactivity of the past month and the person at the other end of the rope; though Michael had lifted heavier bodies up higher walls, he'd rarely lifted anybody he wanted so badly to keep from falling.

Fiona seemed to take her time measuring and marking the location for the bracket. That done, she made four deep holes, the masonry drill roaring and vibrating down the length of the rope.

As she popped out the drill bit to tackle to screws, she asked, "What happened last week—when we were interrogating Takeda?"

Michael was surprised it had taken her so long to ask, but less surprised she'd asked the way she had—when they were literally tied together, and he was holding her fate in his hands.

Recognizing he'd been outplayed, Michael inhaled a long, silent breath, and released it. "When I had to scare my mom during the interrogation, I used my dad."

Fiona paused with the drill in her right hand and the bracket in her left. "You were playing your father?"

"Yeah."

"But it was just an act—Madeline knew that."

"It didn't feel that way. Sometimes."

The drill whirred to life as Fiona screwed in the top half of the bracket. In the quiet that followed, she asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"But—"

"My psych evals have covered it, thanks."

Michael cursed his quick rebuttal and the petty edge in his voice. Both things had been instinctual, rather than planned. Where his father was concerned, his defensiveness was so practiced it was natural—like breathing, or how he imagined sleep must feel for someone who wasn't beset by nightmares.

Fiona proceeded to fasten the bottom half of the bracket to the wall, then replaced the drill in her belt.

"So what did they say?" she asked.

Michael knew exactly what the evaluations had said. For weeks, he'd been hearing the long-ago voices of his doctors and superiors echoing in his mind, talking about him like he wasn't there, and describing him like a machine that needed fixing, but might not be worth it.

"Apparently," he began, "I'm scared of becoming my father and in denial of that fear, which manifests in a borderline obsessive need for order combined with a paradoxical flouting of authority."

"'Flouting'?"

"According to my file."

"And what do you think?"

"I think you'll have to come down before you can move to the second bracket."

A short, heavy stillness ended with Fiona yanking down hard on the rope. It wasn't enough to dislocate his shoulder, but it was enough to make him lose his grip. Fiona zipped downwards at a dangerous clip until he wrapped the hissing rope around both his hands and threw all of himself into stopping her. Her body bumped to a rough halt three feet from the floor while his own body jerked and trembled with effort, the taut rope thrusting his hips forward and sending a jolt of heat up his lower back. The rest of her journey was mostly smooth, and ended with her stepping gracefully to the floor on the balls of her bare feet, seemingly heedless of the previous danger.

Michael's breath was short as he unwound his rope-burned hands and rolled his abused shoulder. But Fiona was just as heedless of his injuries and exertion as she'd been of her nearly disastrous fall. Before Michael had properly collected his breath or re-organized the rope, she was already standing under the other side of the window with the drapes slung over her shoulder, looking up at her next destination.

Without complaint, Michael accommodated her. His hands were warm and faintly throbbing on the rope as he raised her up again to the top of the window. With each long haul on the rope and each new current of strain running through his back, biceps, and forearms, Fiona's indignant oblivion became more and more exasperating. His reluctance to discuss the past felt minor compared to her recent crimes. Fiona, after all, was the one who'd gone behind his back to tell his family and closest friend he was halfway to the loony bin, a charge that had already prompted a surprise intervention and something even worse—his mother offering him sleeping pills. As Michael watched the calm way Fiona handled the drill, his exasperation become anger. Her focus seemed unconscionable at a time when the distracting pain of his raw hands and wrenched shoulder was at war with a very different physical reaction to the sight of her firm legs dangling in the air, each movement and flex of muscle squeezing the straps ever-tighter into her flesh and her romper ever-deeper into her thighs.

Over the roar of the drill, he said, "I'm surprised you didn't ask my mom about the Takeda thing."

Fiona finished the holes for the second bracket, and withdrew the drill. "Why would I—"

"The two of you have been so close lately."

Fiona kept her eyes focused on the drill as she carefully changed the bit. "What did she tell you?"

"Funny—I found myself asking the same thing an hour ago."

With a sharp, hard flick of her wrist, Fiona clicked the bit into place. "Madeline _asked_ how you were doing. She practically cornered me. What was I supposed to do?"

"How about _not_ telling her you think I'm losing my mind?"

"I don't think you're losing your mind."

In the prolonged silence that followed, Michael contemplated the unexpected note of hurt in Fiona's voice. When she resumed drilling the screws into the bracket, that hurt felt heavier than her weight on the rope, and more painful than his still-throbbing hands and aching shoulder. He wanted to apologize, but knew that from his lips to Fiona's ear, the word "sorry" had been overused to the point of meaninglessness. So instead, he gripped the rope tighter and pretended it was her, feeling his distant connection to her body in each twist and pull.

Without looking down, Fiona jammed the drill back into her belt, and announced, "I'll take that curtain rod, now."

Unable to help himself, Michael observed, "You might need another bracket to hold—"

"I know what I'm doing."

Their eyes met as Fiona accepted the end of the long, heavy curtain rod he handed up to her. Out of necessity, their direct contact was brief; Michael needed both hands and all his concentration to hold the combined weight of Fiona and the curtain rod, and to keep her steady as she mortgaged all her own improbable strength to slide the grommet drapes onto the rod, and the rod into the brackets.

Finally, she was done, and he was able to begin lowering her. Her second journey down was routine, but fast, and ended with her dropping heavily into the orbit of his body, her feet slapping the concrete floor. They paused there for a moment, breathing and listening to each other's breath. When Fiona began to pull away, Michael felt her slipping through his fingers, and held on, stopping her with a soft tug.

Looking down into the close space between their bodies, Michael said, "I want you here, Fi—I do. But sometimes..."

"Sometimes, you don't."

"That's not what I was going to say."

"So what were you going to say?"

"Just that it's hard. Sometimes."

"Don't you think it's hard for me, too?"

"I know it is."

"Then you need to take it more seriously."

"I am taking it seriously. There's something wrong with the investigation—I can feel it."

"Or maybe—things are too right."

His mind understood, but his heart rebelled, too certain that nothing was right. The rope seemed faraway in his sore hands and Fiona seemed even further—just like she'd been four years ago, when he had believed in the rightness of his world, but had never been more wrong.

"I need to tell you..." he began, "about the thing with Takeda..."

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the tension of the rope as he swallowed, and then continued. "I didn't want my mom to act out the escape. I kept telling her it was too dangerous, but she wouldn't listen. And I got angry, so angry I almost..."

He trailed off helplessly. Despite his intended honesty, he wasn't able to name exactly what he'd almost done, in part because he wasn't sure. He only knew that when his hand had closed on his mother's shoulder, he'd wanted her to feel it, and fear what he was capable of.

"You've never gotten heated with your mother before?" Fiona asked.

"Not like that," he said. "You know me, I'm not..."

"Emotional...?" she supplied.

Michael struggled to respond, ironically silenced by a surplus of conflicting emotions. "I guess," he managed at last.

The rope twitched in his hands as Fiona leaned back, and deposited the drill on the stack of boxes. Michael unclenched his fingers to let her go, only to have his open hands fill with slack as Fiona dropped forward, her belt clanking against his.

Her breath was warm on his neck when she said, "You're not your father, Michael."

Bad memories of comforting platitudes made him meet her gaze with a frown. "How can you possibly know that?"

"Because I know you."

The pure confidence in her tone and hazel eyes seemed ridiculous until he realized it wasn't. Among the many basic truths he shouldn't have forgotten was the fact Fiona would never try to comfort him with platitudes, and the reason she wouldn't. Fiona withheld comfort not because she was callous, but because she didn't believe in lying—not when it mattered, and when he needed to hear the truth. Which was exactly why he wanted her there, sharing his space and his life.

Wordlessly, Michael slipped his hands under the padded straps of Fiona's harness. Their belts clanked again as she folded her hands into his back and tucked her head under his chin, her lips brushing his collarbone while his own lips brushed her hair, and kissed her through it. As her hands climbed his back, a tangled piece of rope tugged him deeper into her body, conjuring a visceral flash of a memory that had been simmering all evening, ever since the first pull of Fiona's weight on his hips.

"Do you remember... the McCracken job?"

The pressure of Fiona's hands on his belt confirmed that she did. The McCracken job had been in Ireland, when Fiona's hair had still been cinnamon brown, and he'd still been Michael McBride. To take down an informant who'd been caught selling secrets to both sides, he'd needed to pretend to be Fiona's prisoner. That meant she'd had to bind his wrists, well enough to be convincing, but loose enough to let him free himself when he had to. They'd rehearsed in the kitchen of Fiona's flat, with her tying his wrists behind his back and him pretending to struggle with her handiwork, slipping out of a loose handcuff knot being well within Michael Westen's abilities, but beyond those of McBride. The real struggle had been remembering his cover ID with Fiona's lips ticking the back of his neck, her nimble fingers walking down the front of his body toward the site of a far tighter knot.

In the present, Fiona said, "I also remember it didn't last."

That was true. In Ireland, Michael had only let himself enjoy Fiona's hold when he'd been sure he could escape it. In the kitchen of her flat, that escape had taken the form of him too quickly freeing his hands to fill them with her body, then bending that body over the kitchen table to fill it with his. Eight months later, he'd escaped making a real choice about his loyalties by abandoning Fiona's flat to spend the next six years at least an ocean away. For much of the past four years, the escape had been his burn notice, and his continued attachment to a job that had abused his loyalty and taken too much of his soul.

Michael slipped his hands out of Fiona's harness and himself most of the way out of her grip as he said, "That was then."

Fiona let her calloused fingertips trail down his bare forearms to the wrists he offered her. For a moment, she lingered there, watching her thumbs stroke the texture of his veins while she wet and pursed her lips.

"I don't want you tied down," she said. As her fingers slid past his wrists to his sore palms, she added, "Not when you're so good with your hands."

She raised her gaze as she said it, her eyes sparkling with a look he'd only ever resisted by pretending not to see it. Just as she'd done so many times before, she was forgiving him with a challenge. For once, though, it was a challenge he was willing and ready to meet.

Michael knew exactly where to start. His hands curved confidently over her hips to the nylon loops around her thighs, loosening them one at a time before wandering up through the wrinkles of her romper to the padded straps that pressed her chest flat. After observing the satisfying rebound of her pert breasts, he worked his way back down to her belt. One quick pull later, the whole harness clunked to the floor at Fiona's feet.

He leaned in closer to reach the back of her romper. With her hair collected in his left hand, he used his right hand to slide the zipper all the way down, from her neck to her tailbone. Then it was just a matter of unwrapping her—of peeling the straps off her shoulders to expose the smooth, sweeping curve of her stomach beneath the narrow shadow of her breasts. The remainder of her romper slipped easily off her hips and fluttered down her legs to join the harness.

For a long moment, the type of moment they never would have made time for a few months before, Fiona stood amid the wreck of her harness and clothes, and let him admire her. And he did admire her—every part of her. Fiona wasn't as curvaceous as Samantha, or as statuesque as the women whose endless legs and stern lips had so often seduced him during the earlier years of his life. But what she was was perfect. Michael had never met a woman who was so much herself, whose every part and posture radiated with the same meaning and purpose as her eyes. He'd also never met a woman who was so wonderfully, beautifully incongruous—whose visible strength was so finely formed, and whose passions were so shamelessly innocent yet not-at-all naïve.

Standing at the altar of Fiona's naked glory, Michael wanted to try harder to give himself to her; a flush of longing saw him prostrate on the workbench with Fiona riding him backwards, his hands filled with her ass and his chest splattered with sweat from her tossing hair. But it wasn't what she'd asked for, and wouldn't meet her challenge.

From the spectacle of Fiona's sun-darkened nipples, Michael raised his gaze to her darkly shining eyes. "Turn around."

Fiona's hesitation was brief, and mostly for show. As Michael stepped away, she dutifully stepped out of the pile at her feet and turned to face the window, which was now fully covered by the banana leaf drapes. The same woman who'd been preternaturally calm manipulating a power tool while suspended twenty-five feet in the air was visibly anxious in her nakedness on the ground; at the edge of Michael's vision, Fiona fought to remain still, but failed to fully corral the current of nervous energy that trembled up her legs through her back. Sympathetic to her predicament, Michael didn't make her wait long; it only took a moment to collect the massage oil she'd abandoned at the foot of the bed.

Back in Fiona's orbit, Michael warmed the sandalwood-smelling oil between his hands and returned to the place where he'd started, moving slowly down the front of her thighs before circling to the back. Fiona's breath caught ahead of a long, deep exhale as his fingers kneaded the softness, strongest part of her, and then sank into the space between her legs—shallowly, and then deeper, though not as deep as she wanted. From there, he re-oiled his hands that were no longer sore, and traveled up, thumbs registering each notch of her spine before curling over her shoulders to descend the front of her body. His fingers mirrored her ribs on their way through the rivers of her midsection to the jutting crests of her hips. Then he climbed again, over her softly panting chest to the divinity of her breasts, which he circled with his thumbs and shaped with his fingers to the in-and-out rhythm of her lungs. Finally, his hands swept down again, to the place where her increasingly noisy breaths and slowly rotating pelvis wanted him most. Fiona succumbed to an almost angry moan when his fingers slid inside her, her hands clenching and grasping the air at her sides.

Still wearing his jeans and T-shirt with his hands full of Fiona's writhing flesh and slipping in and out of her pulsing, slippery depths, it was all Michael could do not to join in the needful sounds that wrenched her open lips and filled the otherwise empty silence of the loft. When Fiona's anxious hands stroked down her own legs and up the center of her chest, it was only his certainty of her fractious patience that kept him sane. Within moments, that certainty was rewarded; in the wake of an especially violent moan, Fiona spun in his grip to just as violently devour his lips, clawing his neck and smearing his shirt with oil.

They fought through sloppy kisses for the right to remove his clothes. Michael won the battle for his shirt, but Fiona possessed his lower half, her rough but welcome hands jerking his jeans over his hips and his cock out of his jeans. Soon he was slick almost everywhere she was, his skin dissolving in a slippery communion with hers, her liquid flesh pouring into every curve and hollow. The first time she stroked down the underside of his cock with her wrist threading his balls, Michael half collapsed against her body. On the fourth stroke, he did collapse, knocking her back against the window as she threw herself around his waist. He thrust into her weight while impaling her mouth, hands seizing her thighs and a fistful of drapes.

Michael didn't last much longer with all of Fiona's weight and warmth bearing down on him, her arms and legs knotted around his neck and hips while the rest of her crashed in short, heavy thuds against the window and the drapes and the urgent, heedless center of himself. But he did survive long enough to hear her growl into his ear, and feel her tense and shudder around every slippery part of him. His own shuddering release was swallowed in a loud crack and a slap of fabric against his face, as the drapes broke free from the wall and tumbled down around their heads.

The sudden impact of the drapes and the clattering curtain rod sent their tangled bodies cascading to the floor.

Michael barely felt his messy impact with the floor or Fiona's impact with him. A wonderful numbness subsumed every distant throb of pain as he pulled Fiona deeper into places she'd hurt him, and stole another moment in the thrall of her pulse. He kissed her on the concrete floor amid the snarls of banana leaf fabric, not caring care where he was, or how he'd gotten there. He only cared Fiona was with him, which meant he was home.

They were panting when they finally dug themselves out of the drapes, and breathlessly laughing when they cleared them, Fiona hanging and partly falling from his oily shoulders as they stumbled away from the window and collapsed onto the bed. There, Fiona teased his ribs and nibbled his ear while he continued to grin at her antics, giddy in a way he'd never been in his youth.

Once he'd collected himself enough to speak, Michael said, "I told you it needed another bracket."

He smiled through the hard fist to his shoulder he'd known was coming; Fiona never pulled her punches, even in jest. But a moment after hitting him, she fell back into his body, smiling against his chest.

Michael dropped his arm along her spine and nestled his fingers in the small of her back. He knew he should get up, or at least peel back the covers to slip inside the bed. But for the second time in an hour, his heart rebelled, rendering him incapable of doing anything besides indulge the rare joy of letting himself do what he wanted. And what he wanted was to be with Fiona, and think about nothing at all.

It was Fiona who finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry I talked to Madeline."

Reluctantly, Michael opened his eyes onto a view of the ceiling. He returned her rare apology with one of his own. "I'm sorry you had to."

"I didn't have to. I did it because I was worried. And because I was angry."

An hour before, her confession might have angered him. But in the wake of what they'd shared and the reminder of all the benefits of her honesty, forgiveness came easy.

"It's okay," he assured her.

"So it is okay to be angry. Sometimes."

That statement did make hesitate—not out of anger, but out of regret for all the messiness that would always be there, threatening his ambitions for a well-ordered mind.

Still looking up at the ceiling with Fiona's cheek on his chest, Michael said, "Nate thinks I'm addicted to my burn notice."

For the second time, Fiona asked, "And what do you think?"

"I think I don't like taking advice from Nate."

"He'll be okay, you know. With Charlie."

"Nate can barely take care of himself."

Michael still wasn't angry, but he was tired—of his fears, his memories, and his premonitions, and the sickening combination of those things that had been keeping him from a good night's sleep for far too long.

"You only think that because he's your brother," said Fiona.

"I think that because I spent ten years taking care of him."

"That was then."

Fiona's repetition of his own words had the desired effect, producing a note of doubt about whether he was still being too hard on the brother whose adulthood he'd largely missed. He also found himself thinking about the determined, reckless look in his mother's eyes when she'd insisted on acting out the escape with Takeda. Decades of mistrusting his mother had blinded him to the familiarity of that look. Now, he realized he'd seen the same expression on his own face reflected in Fiona's eyes, each time he'd tried too hard to fix the present in atonement for the past.

"Nate also thinks I should see it through," Michael said. "Even if it's just to know if I'm crazy."

"You're not—"

"I need to be sure."

Fiona didn't say anything. For several heartbeats, neither did Michael. On the fourth heartbeat, he asked, "Will you help me?"

"Haven't I always trusted your feelings?"

Michael didn't answer, because it wasn't a question.

"I know it's early," he said, "but do you think we could—"

"I want to sleep until Sunday."

When they slipped between the sheets, Fiona's skin was still faintly slippery with oil, but her familiar scent managed to tame its cloying sweetness, just like her finely formed strength had tamed the bulk of the harness.

Michael was almost asleep when he was possessed by the need for another confession, one he feared his fully conscious self wouldn't have the courage to voice.

"Fi."

"Mm hm."

"There's something else I need to tell you."

"What is it?"

"I really hate those drapes."

"So do I."

Michael would have laughed for an unprecedented second time in a single day if he weren't so tired, and so truly relieved. As he shifted onto his side, he knew Fiona would follow him, and that he wanted her to. He fell asleep tied up in her arms, her chest spooned against his back and her lips tucked behind his ear.

He didn't quite sleep through the night. But when his eyes shot open in the dark before the dawn, they ignored the door and his box of files, and went straight to the pile of tangled drapes. When he closed his eyes, his mind and all of his body sure about where he was, and at least one thing that was real.

**~END~ **(for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** If you're worried about practical details like the precise timeline of events or the exact geography of the loft—don't be! Goodness knows the show never worries about these things :P


	11. Double Booked

**Set in the middle of "Double Booked," Season 2, Episode 8—right after the failed dump truck assassination and before the party where Larry attempts to poison Jeannie**

* * *

"Oh my God—are you okay?!"

Fiona froze at Jeannie's urgent question, and quickly surrendered her too-needful grip on the bruised and bleeding man in her arms, who'd just saved her life and been lucky to escape with his own. Michael stumbled forward into the side of Jeannie's Toyota Corolla, his right forearm clutching his ribs under the jacket of his dust and blood-spattered tan Armani suit.

"I'm fine," he managed, his hoarse voice steadier than the rest of him.

Fiona paused for another long second, at an uncharacteristic loss about the right things to do with her feet and hands. A minute before, when she'd seen Michael stagger out of the half-crushed pickup truck with blood trickling down his cheek, she'd been overwhelmed by instinct and a flood of memories. In a heartbeat, she'd seen each time Michael had saved her life, and each time she'd saved his. Some of the times had made her want to kiss him. Other times had made her want to kill him. Every time had made her want to consume his beating heart with her own. There was nothing else to do with a man like that, who was so stupid, and crazy, and brave, and goddamn _good_. In short, a man who was so much like herself—both the parts she loved, and the parts she secretly hated, but couldn't change.

What had made her freeze was remembering she was with Campbell, now, and his was the only heart she was meant to feel beating in unison with hers.

With determination, Fiona inhaled a large lungful of air, and forced it out through her nose. Then she slid on her oversized D&G sunglasses and declared, "Let's get the hell out of here."

She dropped into the driver's seat and barely waited for Michael to collapse into the backseat before revving the engine and burning the tires on the empty road. As the Corolla catapulted forward, Jeannie's wide eyes got wider, her flattened palms smacking on the dash.

"Sorry," Fiona offered, without really meaning it. The vibration of the steering wheel in her hands and the tension of her foot on the gas were a poor substitute for the newest thing she wanted most—which was to throw the car into reverse and break her guilty knuckles on the face of the would-be assassin that Michael's disoriented but dependable right hook had already felled.

The car leveled out as the smoldering crash site disappeared in the rear-view mirror, leaving Fiona's adrenaline-sharp senses hungry for another distraction. Unfortunately, the only compelling possibility also happened to be the one thing Fiona didn't want to think about.

Michael was slouched more than sitting in the furthest corner of the backseat, still clutching his ribs inside the jacket of his rumpled suit. His hair was damp with sweat and there was dried blood and a streak of dirt on his left temple that he seemed thoroughly unconcerned with wiping away. The slow and deliberate way his pale blue eyes were blinking at the quickly passing landscape told her why he wasn't concerned—because he was far more focused on not throwing up. Fiona was as familiar with the feeling as she knew Michael was; head injuries were a regular part of the trade, but they were never any fun. She also knew her driving probably wasn't helping. But Michael was used to that, too.

Occasionally, Michael's eyes would blink faster, followed by a deep breath and a dry swallow. From behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses, Fiona watched one particular swallow push its way down his throat all the way to his chest, flexing and releasing in the shiny valley of his clavicle. Her own throat was scratchy with the metallic aura of his blood, which seemed to steal any air that wasn't already thick with the sweetly sour smell of his sweat.

"Does he need help?"

Fiona froze for a second time at the unexpected intrusion of Jeannie's voice. Once again and just as unexpectedly, Michael swooped in to save her.

"I'm fine," he insisted, wincing as he pushed himself upright in the seat. "We should—"

"I'll take him to his place," Fiona found her voice in time to interrupt. "Then you can take the car home. It should be safe, now."

Jeannie offered a small, uncertain nod. "Is it stupid to ask what just happened?"

"There was another hitter," said Michael. "Drew couldn't reach him, and there's a cell jammer in the car. He was going to use the dump truck to make it look like an accident."

Jeannie looked stricken. "He would have killed us both."

"Yeah," Michael confirmed.

Fiona could feel Michael's eyes searching for hers in the mirror, but dodged them in favor of looking across at Jeannie.

"It's over," Fiona assured her.

Jeannie nodded again and did her best to relax, leaning back and flexing her tense fingers which nonetheless continued to twitch in her lap. Fiona tried to be grateful for the silence that followed, though she was more grateful for the distraction of the increased traffic as she merged onto the freeway. The crush of cars was enough to keep her eyes away from Michael, but not quite enough to keep her mind from wandering to other images, memories, and questions. As she wove through the threatening gridlock, she couldn't help wondering what would have happened if she'd died. Who would have told her family, and her friends? Strange as it was to imagine Sam Axe informing her mother she'd been killed by a dump truck-driving assassin, it was stranger to realize that, whereas Michael had apparently kept her name in his wallet for years, she'd never kept anyone's name in hers.

Fiona also found herself wondering what Sam or Michael might have said to Campbell about how she'd died. Would either of them have told him the truth? So far, she'd told Campbell very little about her life. During their first encounter, she'd told him she'd been born in Ireland. Sometime before their third date, she'd told him she'd moved to America for work, and that she was currently employed as a freelance security consultant. Fiona was proud of the fact that none of those things was technically false. Though she wasn't yet sure if Campbell could handle the truth, she did know that unlike most of the men in her past and present life, he deserved better than lies.

Fiona had met Campbell at 3:37 in the morning on the street across from her house. She'd been arriving home from a long and frustrating stakeout with Michael, and Campbell had been standing in the blinking red lights of his ambulance, trying to administer an adrenaline shot to a twenty-something girl in the middle of an overdose. His efforts had been hampered by the girl's much older "boyfriend," who'd been shouting insults and threats into her half-lidded, sightless eyes. Fiona had lingered next to her Saab watching Campbell try to reason with the boyfriend, wondering why the hell his partner wasn't helping him. She'd quit looking for Campbell's partner when the boyfriend had grabbed the paramedic by the collar and tried to pry the adrenaline shot out of his hand. It was then that she'd dropped her purse, crossed the street, tapped the boyfriend on the shoulder, and broken his nose. They'd had to call a second ambulance, but it had been worth it. Even better than seeing the boyfriend's face dissolve into messy, frightened tears had been seeing Campbell break into giddy laughter about it afterwards, when they'd been sitting in the back of his ambulance on either side of the girl whose heart would keep beating for another day. In that moment, Fiona had decided that a man with steady hands and the right sense of humor was worth holding on to. She'd spent most of the rest of the day doing just that in the double bed of Campbell's Mid-Beach apartment, which didn't have an ocean view, but did have blackout curtains that made it easy to ignore the transition from night into day, and back into night.

Campbell was good in a different, simpler way than she or Michael had ever been. Campbell had become a paramedic to help people, and did so, every day and sometimes all night, for less money than she'd often made in an hour of loading guns from one boat or van into another. Campbell never complained about his job, except to regret those times when he couldn't do more. He always called when he was going to be late, and had already given her a key to his apartment. He had dinner with his parents every Sunday, and volunteered as a Big Brother every Thursday. And, as far as Fiona was aware, he'd never lied to her. Every question about Campbell's day or past was met with the easy, calm answers of someone with nothing to hide. He greeted her own vague answers about her past with the same easy calm, as unused to lying as the possibility of being lied to.

Part of her, the same part of her that was determined to call Campbell by his last name, liked maintaining her secrecy. After so much experience being a perpetual step behind Michael Westen's many ulterior motives, it felt good to keep some things for herself. Yet there was another part of her that was troubled by the thought that if the dump truck assassin had succeeded in killing her, Campbell might believe she'd died in a simple hit-and-run. Fiona had stopped expecting the jobs she did with Michael to bring her much—or any—glory. But she didn't want to be remembered as someone who'd died without a purpose. Unwanted but unavoidable, it occurred to her that Michael might have felt something similar during his early days playing Michael McBride, when he'd cultivated her as an asset by pretending to be her sidekick.

Fiona wasn't sure when Michael had first started seeing her as more than an asset, but she did know when she'd first started seeing him as more than a sidekick, because it was also the first time he'd saved her life. At the time, she'd known him for about a month. Or at least, that's how long she'd known Michael McBride; it would be many more months before she'd finally meet Michael Westen. During that first month, she'd repeatedly told herself and everyone who would listen that she wasn't taking McBride seriously. McBride had a fine smile and a finer ass, which she was getting used to abusing with her needful fingers while gasping happy curses into the pillow, the wall, his neck, or the smooth, hard planes of his chest. But that was all he had; back then, Fiona had pegged McBride as the type of man whose eyes for trouble were bigger than his stomach for it, who'd asked the last surviving daughter of the Glennane clan to dance in a bar with her boyfriend looking on and a snub-nosed revolver twisting in his gut because he'd been too stupid to know better. Then, late one night in the filthy alley behind Harrington's Pool Hall, he'd saved her life. And everything had changed.

On the night in question, Fiona had let McBride accompany her while she made "charity" collections in the backrooms and alleys of various local drinking establishments. She'd been filling in for her brother Conor, who'd been bedridden and barely lucid with what her great aunt Bridget described as the most satanic flu she'd ever wrestled back to hell. Fiona had let McBride accompany her in part because his devotion had flattered her ego; the corner of her psyche in which she'd always dreamed of ruling her own fiefdom quite liked the figure she cut striding through smoke-filled rooms with McBride at her hip but behind her shoulder, her cheeks pink with satisfaction under the heat of contemptuous and envious stares. She'd also let him tag along for the simple reason that he'd talked her into it, promising he could be useful and reminding her that the faster they got the job done, the sooner they could return to the still-tangled bedsheets in her rented room above the bicycle shop. Later, she'd know he'd been lying. Later still, she'd know he'd been telling the truth. In Ireland, Michael had stayed close because learning her networks had been part of his job. But he'd also done it for the same reason she'd stayed by his side after his surname had changed from McBride to Westen, and his Irish brogue had become a flat American accent—because he'd wanted to.

If Conor had been any less feverish, he almost certainly would have warned her about what had happened a few days before—about how he'd led a raid that had been busted up by an anonymous tip, leading to the arrest of Timothy Dolan, the youngest of the four Dolan brothers, whose uncle-in-law owned Harrington's Pool Hall. Then she would have known not to follow "Lucky" Luke Dolan into the alley behind Harrington's with her Walther tucked in the back of her jeans, and McBride leaning against the bar watching the main door instead of the back one.

It had taken all three of the remaining Dolan brothers to subdue her, and two to keep her pinned in the dirt as Lucky straddled her with a hand on her neck and a switchblade lining her cheek, informing her that his nickname had never been more appropriate, because he hated her even more than her brother. Lucky had been wiping her bloody spit off his face when the back door had swung open, and McBride had stepped into the alley.

Fiona remembered feeling scared at the sight of him—not for herself, but for him. She also remembered being surprised by that fear, which she shouldn't have felt for a man she only liked for his smile and his ass. She'd been more surprised, though, by what had happened next. Lucky had jumped to his feet and drawn a Colt M1911, snarling something about how if McBride knew what was good for him, he'd help them send a message to the bitch who treated him like a lapdog, and the clan that sent a girl to settle a man's score. McBride had blinked, and then smiled his most glittering smile, white teeth sparkling in the gloom. In that moment, Fiona had realized: Michael McBride wasn't just stupid—he was crazy. A moment later, she'd realize he wasn't just crazy—he was good.

In the second Lucky had paused to consider McBride's smile, McBride had been on him, seizing the Irishman's wrist and slamming it against his thigh before smashing his elbow into his eye socket. Lucky had staggered to his knees as his Colt bounced to the ground at McBride's feet. McBride could have easily grabbed the gun, but hadn't. Instead, he'd flashed another, different smile, kicked the gun away, and waited for Lucky to stand. Before launching her snakeskin boot at Ryan Dolan's trachea, Fiona had watched McBride keep smiling through a punch he could have dodged, and realized: Michael McBride wasn't just crazy, and he wasn't just good—he was both, just like her. And just like Michael Westen—no matter how much he denied it.

They'd finished the Dolans fighting back-to-back and side-by-side, invincible together. Michael's lust and fury flowed through her when Pete Dolan's body shuddered past her shoulder to thud like a sack of flour against the wall, and nurtured her own when he sacrificed an uppercut to present Lucky's face for her knee. As she kicked Lucky's cowering body deeper into the dirt with Michael's backside warm against her own, her racing heart was full to bursting in her chest and everywhere else, every sense intoxicated by a violent harmony to which she'd later become addicted.

The Dolans' scrambling feet had still been echoing down the alley when Fiona had redirected her all her lust and fury to Michael, knocking him back against the rough stone wall and pinning him there with her hips while her throbbing fists tugged at his hair and pulled his face toward her split lips. Before he'd even properly kissed her back, her lips had been sliding down his flannel and leather-clad torso to the waistband of his jeans, where she'd ripped open his fly and demanded his cock. Michael's hands had twisted in her hair and jacket in a brief, futile effort to stop her. But soon he'd been giving her what she wanted, brave enough to surrender to a force greater than his own, and crazy-good enough to like it.

"Fi...?"

Michael's weary voice wrenched Fiona back to the present, just in time for her to screech onto the exit ramp ahead of an ungainly delivery truck that chastised her with a deep-throated honk. Jeannie held the window frame while Michael held himself tighter, jaw clenching as his face turned an unhealthy shade of white. Soon, Fiona pulled the Corolla into the driveway of Michael's loft.

"I really don't know how to thank you," said Jeannie, now in the driver's seat and addressing Fiona through the Corolla's open window. Over Fiona's shoulder, Michael was plotting a slow and careful journey up the rusted steel stairs, carrying the disabled cell jammer and leaning a bit too heavily on the railing.

"Just a typical Tuesday," Fiona quipped.

Jeannie dropped her eyes, which made Fiona's own eyes cloud with guilt. For Jeannie, nothing was truly over; Jeannie, after all, was still saddled with a dying husband and a stepson who'd tried to kill her.

"If you need anything..." Fiona offered, not quite knowing what she meant by it, but feeling it was the right thing to say.

Jeannie met her gaze and managed a small, grateful smile. "I will—thanks."

Fiona watched Jeannie back the Corolla out of the driveway, then locked the gate behind her before climbing the stairs to join Michael.

It was a few degrees cooler inside the loft, but hardly less stifling. Ever since she and Michael had agreed to end whatever it was they'd started to have, the loft had felt haunted, too many places and pieces of furniture conjuring too many visceral memories she wasn't supposed to be pining for. Before, Fiona had delighted in teasing Michael with her closeness. Now, she liked to think she was punishing him with her distance, but knew, deep down, that she was actually protecting herself.

When Michael walked toward the bed, Fiona made a b-line for the kitchen. From behind the slatted bar that served as a kitchen table and with her gaze focused on one of three chipped fingernails, she asked, "_Are_ you okay?"

"I will be," Michael replied. Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona saw him gingerly peel off his much-abused suit jacket and toss in onto the back of his favorite green chair. "I just need to get cleaned up. Will you—"

"I'll wait."

Her words were automatic. Regardless of the war raging inside her, between the part of her that wanted to finish peeling Michael's sweaty clothes of his body and nail his naked flesh to the steel cage around the stairwell and the part of her that wanted to forget she'd ever wanted it, Fiona needed to make sure he was okay. She'd invested too much time, blood, and tears in Michael Westen only to let him die from slipping on a bar of soap in the shower.

For the second time since the crash, Fiona felt Michael searching for her eyes. In response, she turned toward the sink, and began washing her hands. In no condition to properly challenge her obvious dodge, Michael retreated to the tiny bathroom at the back of the loft. Fiona continued rinsing her hands until she heard the sound of the shower. Then, out of habit and a desire to seize on a mission that didn't involve making absolutely sure Michael didn't slip on the soap, she started doing what she often did when she found herself alone in Michael's loft—she started searching it.

She never pried into any truly private places, like locked drawers, and closed boxes. Not that it mattered; if Michael had anything he really wanted to keep hidden, he'd never leave it in such an obvious place. Fiona didn't expect her searches to uncover anything legitimately incriminating. But she did like keeping track of the things Michael didn't explicitly hide, which were something akin to things he wanted her to see.

She started with the workbench, where the dump truck hitter's cell jammer was joined by several deconstructed phones and a couple of old radios on their way to becoming listening devices. After that, she moved on to the closet, running her index finger along the tightly-packed hangers and down the neatly stacked shelves. Michael had gone shopping; there were at least three button-downs and one pair of shoes she didn't recognize, and that hadn't yet been creased, torn, or sprinkled with explosive debris. Next, she peeked inside the laundry bin, asking herself, as she always did, what she'd do if she ever found what she knew she was ultimately looking for—namely, girl things that didn't belong to her. The question was both stupid and inevitable; Fiona was sure she'd never find anything, and equally sure she'd never quit looking.

On her way back to the kitchen, she finally found something interesting, tucked inside the breast pocket of Michael's discarded jacket. It was a handwritten list entitled, "Grateful to Mom List." There were five available spots on the list, but only the first spot was filled out. It read, "Outfitted me with a cover ID." Fiona quickly deduced that the list must have something to do with one of the counselling sessions Madeline routinely touted, and Michael routinely shirked. Fiona couldn't blame him; she'd be stiff with rigor mortis before she'd ever share a room with her mother and a psychologist. And yet, Fiona found herself strangely touched by the first item on Michael's list. Though the answer would undoubtedly disappoint Madeline, Fiona felt sure it was true, as well as honest. Suddenly awkward and at least a bit guilty, Fiona carefully refolded the list, and replaced it in Michael's jacket.

The rest of her search was cursory and uneventful. As usual, there was little to no food in any of the kitchen cupboards, a loaded Sig Sauer taped under the sink, and a small, dingy mirror affixed to the back of the cupboard door above the fridge. Fiona held that the mirrored door and pushed herself onto her tiptoes to inspect her reflection in the cloudy glass, smoothing her braided hair and dabbing at the uneven mauve line along her bottom lip. Though she was in no mood to care how she looked, she didn't necessarily want Michael to know it.

She was adjusting the shoulder strap of her military green romper when she heard the bathroom door creak open. Following a final, unnecessary dab at her bottom lip, Fiona dropped from her tiptoes, and found herself looking up at a reflection of Michael. The faraway vision should have been dim, but instead it was crystal clear, supplemented by her memory and the second wind of her laser-focused adrenaline.

He was standing facing his closet beyond the stairwell at the opposite end of the loft, naked save the white towel tied dangerously low on his narrow hips. His skin was flushed and faintly shiny from the shower, which had also angered a large, red bruise below his right shoulder blade. After retrieving a clean shirt and hanging it on the door of the wardrobe, he paused to stretch, raising his arms and rolling his shoulders as his hands slowly massaged his spine at the nape of his neck.

It was a nice sight, but it was the rareness of it that rooted Fiona's feet to the concrete floor, and kept her fingers clenched on the door of the cupboard. Michael McBride had often invited her gaze, whether in crowded rooms or behind closed doors. With Michael Westen, such invitations were scarcer; in Miami, they'd been close to non-existent. Even naked on his back with his heart beating inside her, the present version of Michael was seldom truly available to be watched and enjoyed. Usually, Fiona would have to catch him sleeping to see him that way, and in the past year, Fiona had fucked Michael more often than she'd slept with him.

Her lips were already loose when Michael started lowering his hands to his waist. They dropped open along with his towel as a rare view became a beautiful one.

Michael dried his backside first, moving the towel around, under and between the high, tight contours of his pale, perfect glutes. Then he curled it around his hips to the front of his body, sweeping up into the hollow of his ribs before squeezing down his thighs. Finally, he slipped the towel between his legs, feeling shapes Fiona couldn't see, but knew well. Having lost all sense of time several seconds before, Fiona wasn't sure if she imagined him lingering there, his right hand loosely cupping his manhood as he released a sigh that seemed to wend its way through every lean muscle and inch of shiny skin.

Fiona actually started when the cupboard door squeaked in her hand, the tiny noise reverberating like an alarm inside her skull. When her eyes blinked open, Michael was gone—out of her line of sight, though not her mind's eye. With an effort, she released the cupboard and closed it, then turned mechanically toward the fridge. She hauled open the heavy steel door and stood there for a moment, observing the cool air hiss into a fog that broke on her skin. The fridge presented a choice of yogurt, water, two frozen dinners, and a few lonely condiments; Fiona chose the water. The frosty surface of the plastic bottle turned wet in her hand as her foot slammed the door shut, rattling the condiments on their lonely shelf. The sound was loud, but not loud enough to cover the soft pad of Michael's bare feet.

Fiona cracked open the water and took a long, deep sip as she tried not to watch Michael making his way across the room. He was putting one careful foot in front of the other and buttoning up a slate-colored shirt as he went, offering a brief view of a new, steering-wheel shaped bruise arcing across his ribs, and an even briefer glimpse of the trail of dark hair that descended from his taut belly button into his low-slung Levis.

Fiona pitched her voice light as she asked, "Feeling better?"

"I'd have to be," Michael observed dryly.

"Well you _look_ dreadful," she lied.

"It looks worse than it is," Michael lied back.

When he circled the slatted table to join her, Fiona reflexively extended the water bottle, stopping him just short of arm's reach. Michael accepted the bottle wordlessly, and brought it to his lips. Her continued determination to avoid his eyes left her studying the flex of his jaw as he took one quick sip, and then a longer one, which she followed down his throat all the way to the groove of his chest. The sight recalled the drive from the last place they'd been so close, along with everything that drive had made her feel, and remember feeling. But it was the strong, bright scent of Michael's clean skin that finally overwhelmed her, plunging her back into the next chapter of the same memory she'd been reliving in the adrenaline-soaked aftermath of the most recent time they'd nearly lost each other for good.

In the dark before the dawn after the first time Michael had saved her life, he'd held her in the deep water of the clawfoot tub that was the only nice thing in her dingy rented room, kissing the back of her neck while he caressed her weary curves with a bar of vanilla-scented soap. His hands had sloshed into the water and out again, until her curves no longer felt weary, and her fingers and toes were puckered with wrinkles. Then she'd spun in his arms and stolen the soap, puckered fingers adoring all the glorious parts of the man who'd become so much more than the sum of them. Her fingers had trembled a little tracing the long, shallow cut on his forearm made by the switchblade that had been meant for her. That should have worried her, but hadn't, because when Michael had pulled her into his lap and covered her lips with his, she'd only felt good, and exactly like herself—a different self than she'd been in the alley behind Harrington's Pool Hall demanding Michael's cock in her mouth, but one she liked just as much.

In the present, Michael returned the water bottle. Their hands brushed as she took it, his fingers as wet as hers, and equally warm. Fiona bit her tongue inside her mouth as she wrestled with an urge that felt like a need, to follow Michael's wet fingers back to his body. He could have smeared his wet hands on the thigh of his jeans, but didn't. Just like she didn't stop the bead of sweat trickling fitfully down the back of her knee.

"Fi..." Michael's quiet voice trembled through the air like a breath tickling her ear.

"Yes, Michael."

It was a statement more than a question, since she was sure he felt it, too—how the world had shrunk around them, until the only thing that mattered was the few inches of space still keeping their skin from touching.

"I..."

Fiona raised her eyes as Michael trailed off, in time to see him purse his lips, and look away.

Addressing himself to the cupboards, he continued, "I need to call Larry."

Encouraged by the seemingly lame excuse, Fiona tilted her hips and taunted him with her thinnest, most dangerous smile. "Invite him over—I'll help you slap him back to Sarajevo."

"Except that you're late."

"For what?"

Their eyes finally met as he said, "For breakfast."

Fiona nearly tripped on her quick retreat. She was two days late for her breakfast date with Campbell, who'd had to eat his eggs over easy sitting alone in the early morning sunshine because Michael had asked for her help, and said a woman's life was on the line to make sure she couldn't say no.

A curse made it as far as her lips, but died there, defeated by her greater anger at herself. Fiona knew herself, and she knew Michael; that meant she should have known better. She'd always wanted Michael most when she couldn't have him, and he'd always been most available when it was easiest to escape. Less than a year after she and Michael McBride had washed away their fears side-by-side and mouth-to-mouth in the clawfoot tub of her rented room, Fiona had woken up in the flat she'd shared with Michael Westen, and realized he was gone. She'd ended that day alone in a lukewarm bath, scouring herself with a bar of Lava soap that she wore down to a sliver trying to expunge Michael's scent from her hair, her skin, and her memory, worried that she'd never feel like herself again, and hating the only thing she was sure of—which was the knowledge that she'd willingly sacrifice all her remaining belief in Michael's love for some proof he wasn't dead.

Fiona settled for affixing Michael with the deadliest glare in her arsenal. Then she turned on her heel, and stormed out.

* * *

The following night, after Campbell and his ambulance had helped save Jeannie's life for the second time in two days and Larry had finally departed to anywhere that wasn't Miami, Fiona lay enveloped in Campbell's soft sheets and strong arms, trying to enjoy the trail of her boyfriend's fingers along her naked thigh. In the fading glow of a too-brief oblivion, Campbell's light touch seemed entirely too heavy, while the bedside analog clock seemed entirely too loud.

"So..." Campbell began, a lazy smile in his voice and on the lips that brushed her shoulder. "Today was pretty crazy, huh?"

Something about his choice of words hit Fiona strangely. Her voice was a bit too flat as she said, "Thanks for helping."

"I'm just glad it's over. You said your client's a nurse?"

"A cancer nurse."

"That's a tough job."

"Yeah."

"Maybe not as tough as your job."

He was kidding—because he didn't understand her job, because she'd never properly told him what she did.

After a moment, Campbell asked, "And how's Michael?"

"Michael...?" Fiona echoed, a flicker of cold tingling her spine.

"I thought you guys were dealing with some... family thing?"

Fiona released a silent, relieved sigh. Campbell was just being good. "Michael's fine," she assured him, then added, more quietly, "He's always fine."

In the lull that followed, Fiona concentrated on the slow, circular journey of the second hand around the face of the noisy clock. When it reached the five, it was always half a tick slow. Fiona wouldn't have settled for such inaccuracy in her own home. Campbell wouldn't know that, of course—because such things clearly didn't concern him, and because, even though they'd met on the street outside her house, she'd never invited him in. All their trysts had taken place in Campbell's apartment, where there were no listening devices or semi-automatics hidden under the sink.

Campbell leaned back to stroke her hair as he asked, "And what about you?"

Summoning the same stupid, crazy bravery that had seen her through forty-seven armed standoffs, three faulty detonators, and two broken hearts, Fiona looked up into Campbell's guileless grey eyes and favored him with the warmest smile she could muster as she said, "I'm good."

She was almost disappointed when Campbell returned her smile, accepting her lie with the easy calm that she'd known he would. When she let Campbell pull her further into his arms, that almost-disappointment became something else—a trembling somewhere deeper than her flesh, which didn't stop when Campbell clicked off the light, or when he fell asleep a few minutes later, his low, even breaths tickling her ear.

As Campbell slept, Fiona blinked slowly and deliberately at the dark, seeing equally clearly in the black of the room and on the back of her eyelids what she'd been too hurt and angry to see the day before, the moment before she'd stormed out of Michael's loft. Michael knew her, and she knew Michael; that meant she should have seen the sadness in his eyes as he'd surrendered to a part of himself he secretly hated, but couldn't change, that needed to save her even when she didn't want saving.

Sometime before the sunrise, Fiona finally gave in to restless sleep. But not before wondering if Campbell would ever know her well enough to see the same sadness hiding behind her smile. And if he'd ever love her enough to forgive it.

**~END~** (for now...)

* * *

**A/N:** Oh these two—so much *angst* :P


	12. Friends and Enemies

**Set amid the final few scenes of "Friends and Enemies," Season 4, Episode 1—just after the scene with Winston, Fiona, and Sam at the tattoo parlor (I'm writing it as though they all leave there together), and before the second-to-last scene with Michael and Madeline**

* * *

"You _really_ need to stop touching it."

Winston glanced quickly at Fiona before he reluctantly followed her advice, lowering his fidgeting fingers from the site of the very large, freshly inked tattoo adorning his very pale upper arm. The tattoo signaled the mild-mannered defense attorney's improbable lifetime membership in the Breakers, aka the baddest biker gang in South Florida.

"I keep telling you," Sam chimed in, "the ladies _dig_ tatts. Isn't that right, F—"

"I wouldn't know," Fiona interrupted, flashing a thin smile below her jet-black Gucci sunglasses.

Sam's broader smile exposed most of his teeth as he clapped Winston on the back, so hard the younger man half-tripped on his own feet. "Poor choice of words," the retired Navy Seal admitted. "But—you get the idea."

Watching the unlikely trio cross the parking lot of the Idle Hands Tattoo Parlour, Michael very nearly gave in to a smile. For once, things seemed almost right with the world. The Charger was just warm enough against his backside, and even without the amber sunglasses he'd been missing since the showdown with Simon, the late-afternoon sunlight had just the right amount of lustre, perfectly complimenting the main subject of his gaze—the woman who was definitely not a lady, even when the loose waves of her honey-colored highlights were bouncing on smooth, tanned skin that shimmered in the golden light.

For days, ever since he'd returned to Miami after an abrupt disappearance and several uncomfortable weeks of making new "friends" while being shuffled between various interrogation rooms and black site prison cells, Michael had been struggling to make sense of Fiona's actual nearness but seeming farness. Things had been that way throughout their first spoiled reunion and their even-more-frustrating attempt to make up for it, and even during the climax of their latest affair, when he'd watched Fiona hugged in leather astride the flame-decaled body of a Harley Davidson motorcycle, roaring down the highway at a speed that wasn't wise or truly necessary, but which was, undeniably, beautiful. Now, as Fiona closed in on his position wearing platform sandals and a calf-length, marbled-white silk dress that clung to her hips and floated on her chest at the mercy of two precariously thin straps, Michael had new hope that the struggle might be nearing its end, or at least settling into a détente. The way Fiona moved was as suggestive as her unusually feminine dress; her long, flowing strides felt equal parts detached and determined, as though she knew her careless enjoyment of her own curves was the key to catching his eye. Which of course it was, and always had been.

As the trio came to a halt in front of the Charger, Winston asked, "Do you have any tattoos, Michael?"

"No," Fiona and Sam answered in unison.

Michael came even closer to smiling when Fiona's sudden glare dissolved Sam's grin into something like a grimace. They both turned to him a moment later, as though expecting him to referee the dispute. Michael had no intention of doing so, but it did feel good to be needed, even if being needed boiled down to deciding which of his closest associates was more qualified to identify him at the morgue.

"I hear the burning sensation gets better in a day or two," Michael offered.

Winston nodded uncertainly, fingers climbing back up his arm.

With renewed enthusiasm, Sam declared, "I guess that's a wrap. I don't know about you guys, but I gotta date with a mojito and a lounge chair by the saltwater pool of a cosmetics queen who thought this little job was gonna be wrapped up two days ago." As a not-very-conspiratorial aside, he added, "Her specialty is _body sculpting cremes_."

Undeterred by Michael and Fiona's speechlessness or Winston's flush of embarrassment, Sam continued, "I can drop Winston—his place is on the way."

"Thanks," said Winston, "but I actually thought I'd stop by the motel where my mom's been staying. It's probably better if I try to explain things in person, you know?"

"You can drop me, Sam," Fiona chimed in. "I need to get something from my Westchester storage locker."

Michael's almost-smile evaporated in the suddenly much-less-golden light. Though his gaze remained locked on Fiona, even the sunglasses that hid nearly half her face couldn't disguise the fact that Fiona was looking anywhere that wasn't at him. He'd assumed Fiona would ride in his car. It was, in fact, the whole reason he'd driven to the tattoo parlor; when Sam had called to communicate their plans, he would have much rather been virtually anywhere else—as long as there weren't bars on the windows, and as long as Fiona was with him.

Sam's gaze flickered quickly from Michael, to Fiona, and back again, before he said, "Guess that leaves you to take Winston, Mikey. You can swing past the Sunnyside if you take the turnpike."

For a long moment, Michael continued to stare at Fiona's turned cheek. "Sure," he said at last. "No problem."

The former spy stepped mechanically away from his car before he just as mechanically opened the door to invite Winston inside. From the driver's seat, he watched Fiona drop into Sam's Impala as though she'd done it a million times, and definitely wanted to be there. When the Impala rolled past, Sam waved from the open window, but Fiona merely slouched contentedly in her seat, admiring the scenery. Finally, Michael started his engine, and made his own retreat.

As he drove, he kept both hands on the steering wheel and his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead, hoping to pass the time in thoughtless silence. Less than two minutes into the drive, Winston proceeded to undercut those hopes.

"So," Winston began, round cheeks twitching with a bravely amiable smile. "How long have you worked for Fiona and Sam?"

Flexing his jaw against a senseless desire to correct Winston's characterization of his working relationship with his best friend and former girlfriend, Michael replied, "A while."

"You guys sure make a good team."

"Uh huh."

"And how long were Fiona and Sam…"

For a split second, Michael forgot how to swallow. He coughed on a half-choke, and had to clear his throat to fix it.

Winston clung to his brave smile as he uttered a brief, nervous chuckle. "Wow, I really misread that one. They had that kind of Tracy-Hepburn thing going on, I thought—"

"Forget it," said Michael.

Winston nodded once, and did make an effort to let the subject rest, turning toward the window and knotting his hands in his lap. But soon his thumb was tapping on his index finger, and his eyes were wandering over the dash, as though searching for clues in the too-white upholstery. Michael was starting to see why the lawyer had gotten himself into so much trouble; he was obviously too curious for his own good.

On the heels of a silent sigh, Michael made a tactical decision to head Winston off at the pass. "Fiona is _my_… This is, we _were_…"

"And now you're… not?"

"It's complicated."

"I understand," said Winston. "Sometimes, you become friends, and you realize it's better that way."

Michael blinked into the setting sun as he battled back another thoroughly pointless urge to correct Winston's interpretation of his life. Though Michael didn't have many friends, the ones he did have didn't drive his body to distraction simply by walking across a parking lot, or change the color of the afternoon by deciding not to ride in his car.

As he continued to stop, start, and weave through the dregs of rush hour traffic, Michael heard more about Winston's mother's cats than he'd ever wanted to know about anything that didn't have a motor or the capacity to explode. But because it was easier than talking about himself, he contributed the expected nods while his mind wandered elsewhere—to Management, to Vaughn, and, against his will, back to Fiona, and Sam, and the life they'd helped him build. He wondered if Fiona and Sam had done other jobs without him, and who'd done the work of finding the clients. Three years ago, he couldn't have imagined Sam working for anyone who wasn't a moneyed divorcee, and couldn't have imagined Fiona working for anyone who wasn't herself. And he definitely couldn't have imagined Fiona and Sam working together, let alone doing it with enough familiar, fiery banter to make a newcomer think they might once have been more than professional partners. But Fiona and Sam weren't the only ones who'd changed. Michael knew he'd also started doing plenty of things the person he'd been three years wouldn't have thought possible. Before his burn notice, he definitely couldn't have imagined he'd be glad to be back in Miami behind the wheel of his father's car, or that he'd be almost painfully preoccupied by the absence of a woman he'd once abandoned for her own good, but also for his.

As they finally pulled into the terra cotta-roofed roundabout of the Sunnyside Motel, Winston shrugged on the shirt he'd been keeping folded over his knee. When he buttoned it up over his white undershirt, his tattoo was still faintly visible through the fabric.

Gazing into a seeming infinity of teal and canary colored motel room doors, Winston asked, "What should I tell her? I mean—how do you make someone understand something like this?"

It was a good question, which Michael thought deserved an honest answer. "I don't know." In response to Winston's nervous glance, he added, "You tried to do the right thing. That should count for something."

Winston nodded; he didn't quite look confident, but he did at least look capable of leaving the car under his own power.

"Thanks," he said. "And tell Fiona and Sam—"

"I will."

Michael watched the beginning of Winston's journey toward his mother's room, but didn't wait to see him knock on the door; he didn't want the messiness of reality to intrude on the image in his mind, of a loving family reunited after a brief and singular crisis, ready to spend the rest of their lives far away from his.

The final leg of the drive was uneventful, but still much less thoughtless than Michael had wanted it to be. The loft was the same; when Michael stepped through the bomb-warped door, the wide-open silence didn't feel peaceful, it just felt empty—entirely too empty. As did his stomach, which hadn't encountered anything besides water since the yogurt he'd eaten for breakfast, and hadn't enjoyed a decent meal for weeks before that. Though Vaughn had offered him plenty of comforts during their week of supposed friendship, Michael had a rule about accepting gifts from people who were a bit too eager to work with him, whether those gifts took the form of money, sex, or three-course meals served in private underground dining rooms decorated with Napoleonic furniture and looted Roman antiquities.

But even his increasingly urgent hunger couldn't compete with the lure of a shower—and specifically, a long, private shower, where he could be completely sure no one was watching him or waiting on the other side of the door with a silenced Glock, a garrote, or set of handcuffs presaging yet another interrogation.

Inside the tiny bathroom with the door closed and locked behind him, Michael turned the shower's hot water tap to full; the faucet gurgled and sputtered several bursts of brownish water before running as well and as clear as it ever did, which meant water that was lighter than dirt but significantly darker than a bottle of Evian, and that took at least five minutes to become tolerably warm. As he waited for the water, Michael took his time undressing, peeling off his clothes one sweaty, dust-spattered item at a time. Once his jeans were hanging from the back of the bathroom door and his T-shirt, boxers, and socks were crumpled in a pile at his feet, he did something he rarely did or wanted to do: he faced the mirror above the sink, and looked.

Michael had never properly embraced the long-ago realization that he was capable of being handsome. It was a powerful but unreliable tool, which he usually regretted wielding. Besides that, he'd always seen too much of his father in his pale eyes and too much of his mother in the pink arch of his lips. In recent years, his face had become even less comforting. Michael suspected there was a time when the lines around his eyes hadn't been quite so deep, and when the tan on his cheeks had looked healthful rather than parched under a thin layer of gray-flecked stubble. But even though he wanted to believe things had been different before the burn notice, when he'd still had enough money and occasional parcels of time to indulge in the types of things that made the experience of aging under too many UV rays at least slightly more manageable, he couldn't honestly say if that was true. Between Ireland and the present, he'd often lost track of his face for weeks or months at a time, treating it as little more than an occasionally useful asset that was worth preserving only because there might come a day when it helped him survive. In the sparkling smiles of both Victor and Larry, Michael had seen traces of a similar impulse, marred by a glint of mania. Simon, though, had abandoned those pretenses for a different, more direct power. Simon's toothy, lopsided grin and shining, shallow eyes hadn't hinted at mania—they'd cultivated it.

As a rule, Michael preferred his body to his face. His body was easier to shape and control, which meant it was his, with few if any traces of his mother's one-time fragility or his father's paunchy excess. Yet his body, too, had seen better days. Though he tried not to think about it and had certainly never said it out loud, Michael knew some things had become more difficult, and that nothing healed as quickly as it used to. That included breaks, cuts, and bruises—like the purplish streak of bruises that currently branched out from his spine, souvenirs from the ten painful seconds he'd spent with his arms and legs wrapped around Big Ed's much larger body, trying to cut off the biker's carotid artery. With his neck craned over his shoulder, Michael reached back to touch the darkest patch of bruises. The first touch made him wince, but the second made him grit his teeth on a sharp intake of breath; evidently, his bruises were accompanied by at least a couple of cracked ribs. That would mean a week or more of sleeping on his side or his front, but Michael counted as a win any wound that didn't scar.

Given the life he'd led and continued to lead, Michael knew he was lucky to have as few scars as he did. Too many scars, or even just the wrong type of them, could easily complicate all manner of cover IDs; a nerdy computer programmer might have a past in which he'd been shot through the shoulder or stabbed in the gut, but explaining such things typically involved extra prep, and extra risks. Strangely, many of his most visible scars hadn't been the work of enemies or anonymous actors, but rather those close to him—people he did or was supposed to love. Two such scars—the thin white line running down his right bicep and the rough, darkish, ellipse over his heart—had involved Fiona. On both occasions, Fiona had wanted to hurt him, and he'd wanted to let her. And in all the years since, neither of them had ever formally admitted it or apologized.

As he'd done many times before, Michael told himself it didn't matter; those things had happened a long time ago, in another life. Yet the scars themselves made sure he'd never forget, as did his continued association with the person who'd made them. Michael wasn't sure exactly how Fiona felt about many aspects of the past; he wasn't sure if she'd forgiven him, and would likely never be sure if he deserved to be forgiven. But he did know that she thought about the past. That much had been clear during the morning after the first time she'd shared his bed in Miami, when he'd pretended to sleep through the ticklish kiss of her familiar fingers tracing the ellipse over his heart. It was the secretiveness of the gesture that had made the moment memorable. It wasn't like Fiona to be shy about touching him where and how she wanted, whether that involved trying to steal the breath from his throat with her lips and a hint of teeth, or raking her nails across his chest while he was at his most vulnerable, lost inside the thud and thrust of her tight, perfect warmth.

Michael didn't notice he was touching his chest until the weight of his hand became all he could see or feel. With a blink of realization, he dropped his hand, and stepped into the shower.

For one wonderful minute, he was lost in the steam and the echo of the water against his sore flesh. But when he started to move the soap between his hands and slide the lather up his arms, his thoughts returned to Fiona. There were few sights more breathtaking than Fiona in the shower, water cascading through the shallow cavern of her breasts and splitting at the tightness of her belly button before branching into dozens of tiny rivulets for the journey down her legs. The way she'd move in the water would be even better. Thrusting her face into the spray and twisting her thighs in the slipperiness between them, she'd be like she'd been crossing the parking lot, but more so—driving him wild by enjoying herself. Michael knew just how she'd rub the soap across her chest before rubbing her chest against his, or maybe his back, her wet lips tasting his neck as her hands slipped over his hips, and down, and then up again. With the water pounding on his shoulders and Fiona's heart pounding everywhere else, he'd twist his own hips against the grind of her pelvis and a grip that was slippery and frustrating and a little too loose before it was firm and fast and just about perfect.

It took exactly two seconds for the creak of the loft's steel door to penetrate Michael's consciousness, and another three seconds for him to bound out of the shower, sling a towel around his waist, snatch his SIG-Sauer P228 off the back of the toilet, and throw open the bathroom door while slamming his shoulder against the wall, steadying his aim at the intruder framed by a patch of evening sky at the opposite end of the loft.

Three steps inside the loft, Fiona froze, eyes flashing across the room. She smiled into his crosshairs as she said, "Now I feel extra bad about how I greeted you the other day."

Michael blinked, dimly aware that he owed her a comeback. But, standing inside a widening pool of water with his gun still pointed at the door and his towel barely clinging to his hips, he was only capable of stating the obvious. "Fiona."

"In the flesh," she confirmed. She knocked the door closed with her foot and then spun toward the kitchen, her right arm swinging a large brown paper bag. She paused mid-step to say, "Finish what you're doing—I can wait."

A rare rush of embarrassment snapped Michael at least part of the way back to reality. He lowered his gun just in time to stop his towel from tumbling down his legs, and shut off the shower before following Fiona toward the kitchen.

"I thought you had to get something from your storage locker," he observed.

"I did," Fiona replied sweetly, slinging the paper bag onto the bar-height, slatted bench that served as his kitchen table. "This."

Still less than fully present, Michael could only manage a baffled stare at the deep red bottle of wine.

"It's expensive," Fiona explained. "And it pairs great with truffle risotto from Anthony's."

In the same instant that Michael opened his mouth to speak, Fiona turned away and began riffling through the cupboards for plates. Michael watched her with his lips hanging open, confused and paralyzed by her seeming ignorance of what he'd wanted for days and had tried very hard not to want during several weeks' worth of days before that, many of which he'd passed staring at gray concrete walls, and at least one of which he'd spent lying hog-tied with a bag over his head on the cold floor of a cargo plane: he wanted Fiona to come to him, and take him somewhere else.

His voice was toneless as he said, "I guess I'll go get dressed."

He paused after he said it, giving Fiona one last chance to tell him not to bother. But she remained invested in ignoring the gun still dangling from his right hand, the towel knotted precariously in his left, or the water that continued to drip from his mostly-naked skin. Without so much as a backwards glance, she clanked a set of mismatched plates and bowls onto the counter, then began noisily unpacking an assortment of plastic containers.

Michael's second frustrated retreat of the day was more difficult than the first, but still less difficult than putting on a fresh pair of jeans and a dark gray T-shirt at the wardrobe on the other side of the stairwell. Everything felt scratchy sliding against his skin, and entirely too tight where it eventually settled on his body. When he returned to the kitchen, he had to clench his jaw to keep himself from readjusting his jeans with every third step, and was still clenching it when he climbed gingerly onto the edge of a barstool to confront the strawberry spinach salad and plate of risotto Fiona pushed in front of him.

While Fiona busied herself filling two long-stemmed wine glasses she must have brought with her, Michael looked down at his food. It looked good, and smelled better. On its own, that might have been enough to placate him. But when Fiona hopped onto the second barstool and tossed her honey-colored highlights over her bare shoulder, he was suddenly sure her hair smelled better than any meal ever could.

As Fiona sampled her wine, Michael asked, dutifully, "Do you have everything you need?"

"I think so," Fiona replied brightly, already sucking a juicy strawberry off the tip of her fork.

"Great," he deadpanned.

In the wake of Fiona's third self-satisfied mouthful, Michael finally decided he'd had enough—it was time to retaliate. For him, retaliating didn't necessarily involve making a scene. Instead, it meant resolving to be better at playing whatever game you happened to be caught up in, even when it involved pretending not to care about the bronzed skin or citrus-scented hair of the person sitting next to you, devouring savory fruits and fungi with deliberate gusto. And so, he turned his attention to his own salad, and started eating, silently, and methodically.

For a while, they were locked in a standoff of stony expressions and determined chewing, interspersed with joyless, mandatory sips of wine. Soon, though, Michael noticed Fiona's jaw flex below a surreptitious glance, and knew the tide had started to turn. When she began drumming her fingers on her thigh and neglecting her wine, he knew he'd won; it was just a matter of time. Moments later, he was proven right.

Fiona dropped her fork as she blurted, "Just _say_ it."

Michael looked at her blankly. "Excuse me?"

"Whatever it is you've been wanting to say. Since I got here. Since you got back."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He punctuated his dismissal with a long sip of wine, which he swallowed while pretending not to appreciate the second, fiercer flex of Fiona's jaw. When he returned to his meal, Fiona followed suit. But in all the years he'd known her, she'd been as impatient as she was competitive; where his fork was pinned loosely between his thumb and forefinger, hers was clutched tightly, more like a weapon than a utensil. Before long, she'd abandoned her meal altogether in favor of glaring at the robotic rhythm of him eating his.

"You know—_you're_ the one who disappeared."

"Sure."

"If this is about us taking _jobs_…"

"You did what you had to do," he stated. "I get it."

"What I _had_ to do?" she echoed.

"Right."

"Is that what you think this is?"

Michael had wanted to provoke her, but even his wealth of experience with her capacity for fury left him unprepared for the way she looked at him then—like she was one radioactive accident away from being able to melt him with her eyes.

"Do you think," she continued, "that while you were sweating and bleeding in whatever hole those bastards threw you in, I _had_ to kick down doors all over town while dodging phone calls from your mother? Do you think I _had_ to go drinking with Sam four nights a week at bars of _his_ choosing and listen to him talk about the 'good old days'? Do you think I _have_ to be here, eating take-out at a table better suited to sitting on, _not_ talking about how you're planning to go into business with the very people who burned you? You think I _have_ to do any of these things?"

Fiona's mouth was still trembling from her final, venomous phrase when she wrenched her gaze away, and seized her wine, taking a large, reckless swallow that left her lips only slightly darker than her cheeks. Michael's face was the opposite; his cheeks were pale, cold from their proximity to her heat. It wasn't the first time she'd left him humbled and a little bit frightened by a depth of passion he'd often tried to convince himself he wasn't capable of inspiring. But that didn't make him any better at knowing what to do. He watched helplessly as Fiona swept up her plate and hurled herself off her stool, heading for the sink. She scraped the remainder of her meal into the trash bin before jerking on the tap and squirting blue dish soap onto a green and yellow sponge.

It was the sound of the running water that finally convinced Michael to move. When he reached Fiona's side, she was rinsing her plate, spinning it back and forth between her hands. After clanking the clean plate back onto the counter, she rinsed her hands, fingers diving in and out of the less-than-clear stream as a thin trail of bubbles and a few grains of rice circled down the drain.

Speaking over the noise of the water, Michael said, "No. I don't think that."

Fiona turned off the tap, then dropped her wet hands onto the counter and her weight onto her hands, hair tumbling forward to hide her face.

Her passion seemed to have drained along with the water as she said, "For a while, I wasn't sure…"

"Neither was I."

There were a lot of things he hadn't been sure he'd see again. Like the sun, or any walls that weren't gray. Or Fiona's hands, weaving in and out of a warm stream of water.

"I don't like worrying," she reminded him.

"I know," he assured her.

In the pregnant pause that followed, Michael thought about what he might have done in Fiona's place—if it had been him facing her mysterious disappearance from a police station in the middle of the night. It could have happened, and might yet happen. And if it did, he'd be as helpless to find her as she'd been to find him. He would need help, the kind of help only men like Vaughn could offer. That's how it had started with Victor; maybe Simon had been the same.

He was looking past Fiona at the distorted smudge of his reflection in the glass bricks next to the fridge when he made the decision to try and explain at least some of what had been troubling him—not just since he'd found his life continuing without him, but before that, when he'd found himself lying in the gutter with his haggard face reflected in the eyes of a sociopathic murderer, whose blood-soaked file so many of his former associates apparently thought was plausibly similar to his own.

"Fi, I—"

His next sound was a muffled grunt as Fiona's lips slammed into his. Michael staggered under the force of the unexpected assault, gripping Fiona's backside purely as an act of self-preservation, her body being the only available surface that might keep him from falling. He should have been embarrassed for the second time in an hour by how long it took him to realize the undulating silk and flesh in his hands was good for more than holding him upright, and that he could suck back on the lips and tongue that had so quickly swallowed both his words and his desire to speak. But before the emotion could register, he was far too busy making up for lost time, retaliating against Fiona's attack by spinning her into the wall to steady her against the rough assault of his own lips and hands. The sudden jut of Fiona's silk-clad thigh into a tender spot between his legs spun him in turn, knocking his hip against the table and his elbow into Fiona's half-full wine glass, which spun and tumbled across the table before exploding in a high-pitched, sparkling crash.

Michael's bare feet danced through shards of glass as he fought Fiona back into the kitchen along with an epic quandary, about whether how good she'd feel sliding against his naked chest was worth letting her go for even the few seconds it would take to be rid of his shirt. In the end, Fiona made the choice for him—decisively, and vigorously. Her strafing fingers jammed his collar in his throat before he could make enough space to raise his arms, and finally pull the offending garment over his head. Fiona used the break in the action to slap both her hands on his collarbone, and shove, throwing him back into the steel door of the fridge.

Michael sputtered into her hair on the resulting rush of pain, hands clenching in her dress a moment before a second numbing jolt made him incapable of holding anything. He fumbled for the table as Fiona slipped out from under his suddenly aimless weight.

"What's—"

"I'm fine," he managed. "I just—"

As he straightened his back, his words dissolved in another hiss of pain.

"Big Ed?" she inquired.

"Yeah," he confirmed, wincing into the ceiling while he massaged his neck with his gradually reviving hands.

"He was quite—"

"Yeah…"

Michael lowered both his gaze and his hands when Fiona's newly gentle fingers touched his chest, palm eclipsing the scar she'd made.

"Between the two of us," she purred, "I'm sure we can improvise."

While Michael was still reeling from the betrayal of his usually dependable body, Fiona bumped her pert breasts against his chest, and then turned, sliding as much of her skin and silk across as much of his own skin and jeans as she could reach, until her back was lining his torso, and her ass was tight in his groin. Michael released a slow breath as he ran his hands down her body, and up again, until numbness became greediness, and his cracked ribs became a distant memory. The next time his hands made the journey down her curves, they wrinkled her dress into the warmth between her legs, swirling slippery folds of silk into sensitive folds of flesh. Fiona squirmed in his hands as her own strong hands abused his thighs, her dress tangling and scratching in his jeans. Then, in the wake of a hissing sound that had nothing to do with pain, she keeled like a storm-snapped tree toward the sink, hands spreading on the counter while her thighs pushed back against his jeans, and rubbed.

For the barest of moments, Michael hesitated. He didn't usually take her that way, and she didn't usually offer. Usually, he liked to see her face, and she liked to use her hands. And her legs. And her teeth, which would be sharp, but welcome in their sharpness. Just like the fly of his jeans in his roughly clumsy hands. Or like the zipper he was splitting down the back of Fiona's dress. Or like the notches of her spine when he stroked her bare back from the top of her neck to groove of her tailbone. Or like the bright glint in her eyes when she looked back at him through an unruly waterfall of hair, wet lips pursing once, and then parting with a deep, relieved sigh.

Michael sighed with her, sure that everything was perfect until her thighs began to rock and sway in his hands. He swallowed a groan as he tightened his hold, pulling her deeper into the flex of his gut against the press, slide, and bounce of her soft, strong flesh. The bounce became a smack when Fiona straightened her arms, splayed hands trembling on the counter. The next smacks nearly shook her out of his hands until he threw his right arm forward, hand landing on the counter next to hers. Fiona moaned ahead of a growl as she twisted and hurled her weight back. She lost her grip only long enough to better it, slapping her hand onto his, and squeezing, fingernails scoring his knuckles. Michael's eyes blinked open on a new and different rush of pain, then flickered on a divine vision of Fiona's back, arched like the first crest of a roller coaster that began at her shoulders and ended where it crashed into the beating heart of his need—again, and again, and again.

On the next crest, Michael's left hand shot out to seize Fiona's, not because he needed the leverage, but because he didn't. In the suddenly effortless magic of their give and take and grind, Michael could pine for other things, like the joy of feeling as much as possible of Fiona's final crash, jolting and shuddering onto his through a chorus of guttural sounds. And then, for a while, there was nothing—just breathing and a twitchy, careless comedown, wrapped in a rightness that some small but vital part of Michael's brain would always know existed in and with Fiona, and only there.

Parting was difficult, but the sight of Fiona's face very nearly made up for it. Her cheeks were glowing on either side of a loopy smile that matched the heavy hand she trailed across his chest on her way into a cat-like stretch.

"Well," she declared, hands questing through her tangled hair. "I think we finally did that right."

Michael returned her smile with a smirk, tempted, despite the returning pain in his back and what he was slowly starting to realize was a trickle of blood between his toes, to pull her back into arms for the start of round two. But Fiona was already moving away, ducking to collect her discarded dress before crunching through broken glass on the platform sandals neither of them had thought to remove.

When they reconvened in the kitchen, they did so with two forks bent over the remaining risotto and the rest of the wine split between the only surviving glass and a cracked white mug. Fiona was wearing one of his clean dress shirts and he was back in his jeans and T-shirt with a band-aid wrapped around his big toe, from which he'd extracted a generous sliver of glass. They didn't talk as they finished the cool but still delicious rice, but it was a comfortable silence, infused with the rediscovered glory of how good they could be together, whether they were working on a remote detonator or an Italian entree.

But like every pocket of tranquility in a pair of lives that seldom remained quiet for very long, it couldn't last. Once they'd finished the risotto and washed it down with several generous sips of wine, Fiona asked, "So where were you?"

"Cuba, I think. Then Columbia."

"Did they hurt you?"

"No. Just locked me up with some files."

"Files?"

"On Management. On their organization."

The reference to his burn notice ushered in the first tense silence since their latest reconnection.

Finally, Fiona said, "You're not going to quit, are you?"

Michael answered her rhetorical question with one of his own. "Would you?"

Fiona stared down at her glass, her fingers very still on its delicate stem. "What happened to Simon?"

"I don't know," Michael admitted. When he looked down at his own mug of wine, he found himself studying another distorted reflection. "Maybe… I don't want to know."

It was the closest he'd come to admitting something of what he'd felt lying in the dirt next to Simon with his hands cuffed behind him and a Miami PD officer's boot between his shoulder blades, being handled like an animal that was too dangerous to touch.

He was grateful when Fiona changed the subject. "Those FBI assholes went at Madeline pretty hard."

Michael nodded.

"She never gave up," Fiona continued. "You would have been proud of her, Michael."

"I am." He met her eyes as he said it, wanting to make sure they agreed—they weren't just talking about Madeline.

Fiona broke her gaze to take a slow sip of wine, followed by an even slower swallow.

"And how was the drive with Winston?" she asked.

"Oh, fine…"

"Did he tell you about his mom's cats? I hear Boots is _quite_ the character."

"He was more interested in talking about you." That seemed to please her, until he added, "_You and Sam_, that is."

Fiona's face fell. "You don't mean…"

"I told him all about your passion-soaked past and your son at Florida State."

Fiona stared at him, aghast. Michael didn't let her worry long before giving in to the bemused smile he'd denied himself outside the Idle Hands Tattoo Parlour. In that moment, Winston's assumption felt very different than it had during the drive, when it had still been ridiculous, but had also hit a bit too close to something that had seemed like a legitimate fear—that the people who were the best part of the life he'd improbably started to like might be better off without him.

He was sure Fiona would punch him in the shoulder, or step on his bandaged toe. But instead, she merely frowned, and said, "Why is it you always pick the worst times to develop a sense of humor?"

"I must have learned it from you."

That did earn him a kick in the ankle, but afterwards, Fiona kept her bare foot close to his, toes curling around the base of his stool. Her toes stayed there while they returned to their wine and another comfortable silence.

When Fiona stood up, Michael didn't ask where she was going, confident it wouldn't be far. She returned while he was finishing the dishes, drying his hands on a gingham cloth he'd stolen from his mother's house. When he turned to greet her, he was surprised to see her back in her shoes and marbled-white dress.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

"Home," she replied. When he continued to regard her quizzically, she explained, "I've got a bunch of things to do in the morning, and I'm sure you could use a good night's sleep after…"

"Yeah," he agreed. It was a far cry from what he wanted to say, which was that he'd sleep better if she stayed.

Fiona lingered for a moment, looking beautiful but weary in her rumpled silk and smudged eyeliner, her weight slouched on her hip. Then she turned, and started to leave.

As he watched Fiona retreat on strides that were neither loose nor particularly long, Michael circled the table, and then stopped, thinking. He thought about the bruises on his back, the band-aid on his toe, and the red streaks on his knuckles. He also thought about three weeks ago, when he'd woken up in painful chains in the belly of a plane leaving Miami, and how it had felt strangely similar to an earlier flight of his own volition, from Dublin to London and on to Kabul.

Fiona was almost at the door when he said, "You know, there was a mission I tried to quit, once."

Fiona paused, and turned halfway. "What happened?"

"It didn't work out."

"Are you sure?"

"No."

For another long moment, their eyes locked across the room; she was looking over her shoulder, while he was looking ahead.

"What were you going to say?" she asked. "Earlier, before we…"

"I don't know."

Michael regretted the words as soon as he said them. In a way, they were honest, because he still didn't know how to properly explain everything he'd thought and felt since their reunion, and Vaughn, and seeing himself in Simon's eyes. But the deeper truth was that he wasn't sure how to explain without changing his reflection in Fiona's eyes, or admitting how badly he needed to see it.

He regretted his words even more when Fiona dropped her gaze. "Goodnight, Michael."

Because he had to, Michael replied, "Goodnight, Fi."

After Fiona continued through the door and closed it behind her, things were less empty than they'd been an hour before; that was usually the case after Fiona been there, even when she didn't stay. It was, however, entirely too quiet.

For a time, Michael stood there in the quietness, staring at the door. Then, he ran a hand through the disheveled hair he still hadn't washed, and looked toward the shower, and the bed, and across at the fridge. Finally, he dug his phone out of his pocket and dialed the number of another woman he'd often tried not to love, but couldn't, because in her own way, she was just as good at understanding him, and even better at forgiving him.

"Mom, it's me. I thought I'd stop by in the morning. There's... something I need to tell you."

**~End~ **(for now…)

* * *

**A/N:** Hope the tangled emotions made sense in this latest installment; I feel like Michael and Fiona might have been at their most confusing and confused in Season 4, and I wanted to try and explore some of that. Speaking of making sense—hoping it goes without saying that Michael's opinions about his appearance are his, not mine :)

One final, hopefully unnecessary PSA: *never* drink and drive unless you're a fictional character with superheroic skills in this area, and your actions serve a significant narrative function ;)


	13. Hard Out

**Set during and after the final scene of "Hard Out," Season 5, Episode 8**

* * *

Michael was late. So was his mother her new boyfriend Ben. It was 8:07 pm, and Fiona was sitting alone at a four-person table in the busy dining room of Fogo de Chão, starring blindly into an immense fish tank brimming with Lionfish, Tangs, and gaudily colored coral. The fingers of her left hand were resting on a large manila envelope, and the fingers of her right hand were wrapped around the stem of a half-empty glass of rosé. She'd hoped the wine would numb her, but so far, the combination of wine and waiting had only succeeding in making her angrier.

Finally, Michael arrived, wearing a lavender shirt under the open jacket of a pale gray sharksin suit, accessorized with dark circles under his eyes and a small red cut on his temple.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, releasing a tired breath as he dropped into the chair next to hers. "I had a debrief with Pearce back at the agency."

Fiona's spine tingled, but she managed to say, tightly, "It's fine."

As Michael got settled, she took another sip of rosé, then asked, "How was your mission?"

He was pouring his own glass of wine as he replied, "It was… rough. It worked out, but…"

"You can't talk about it. Whatever." Beneath her sarcasm, her resolve ever-so-slightly wavered, her eyes drawn to the red mark on his forehead that hadn't been there when she'd said goodbye to him in the parking lot at the pier three days before. Then she remembered about the manila envelope. With a vigorous jab, she pushed it across the white tablecloth. "The lead—on your bomber."

Michael eyed her as he accepted the envelope, folded it, and slipped it into the interior pocket of his jacket. "How'd the job go?"

"Does it matter?" she wondered, bitter sarcasm restored. "You got what you needed."

Michael placed his wrists on the table and regarded her seriously. "Fi—what's going on? Did something… happen… with Armand?"

"Now you're _full_ of questions," she observed, swirling her rosé. "I _lot_ happened with Armand, Michael. Years ago. Back in Ireland, in the bad old days."

"Were you and he, uh…" Michael's furtive eyes darted around the room, as though searching for eavesdroppers.

In a clear voice she declared, "Yes, Michael. We were. That is, until I found out he'd _paid_ to meet me, by doing a favor for some of our… old associates." She looked down at the pink liquid spinning in her glass. "He killed a British customs agent, if you're curious. Quite a romantic gesture, don't you think?" She capped her bitter speech with another long sip of wine.

Michael rearranged his teeth inside his mouth and then said, in a determinedly even tone, "I didn't know that, Fiona."

"No, you didn't," she agreed curtly, then added, in a smaller voice, "Ignorance is bliss."

For a long, tense moment, their eyes locked across the table. She was sure Michael was angry, and hoped he was angry at her. It would be so much easier to fight with one person than several, one of whom was long gone, the other of whom was herself.

The silence was broken by Madeline's enthusiastic voice, echoing across the room. "_There_ they are—Hi!"

Michael immediately turned on his most dependable, fakest smile, the one he always fell back on when he was the most unmoored. Ben was close at Madeline's side, favoring her with an admiring look as he politely pulled out her chair. He was a large, bearishly attractive man, wearing a dark suit over a sherbet yellow button-down shirt. Besides his clothes, Fiona thought he looked like he'd stepped out of an old Western, where he would have either been the good sheriff that gets killed, or the one that seems good, only to be revealed, in the final act, as in cahoots with the outlaws all along.

Madeline's face was beaming as she said, "I want you to meet my son, Michael."

Michael stood to shake Ben's hand while Madeline finished the introductions. "And this is his very special lady, Fiona."

Fiona managed a faint smile as she obediently extended her hand. For Madeline's sake, she didn't want to be responsible for ruining the evening. As it turned out, she needn't have worried; if either Madeline or Ben was aware of the tension, they certainly didn't show it.

"Dinner is my treat," Madeline declared. "Benny actually sat through an entire stretching class with me today, so I owe him."

Grinning lopsidedly, Ben chimed in, "It was a blast, in a 'I hope we never have to do it again,' kind of way."

Madeline and Ben laughed as Fiona exchanged another long look with Michael. He was still smiling, but less so, his jaw still angry, his eyes apologetic.

"So, Michael," Ben began. "Your mom has told me so much about you."

That thought cheered Fiona somewhat; she wondered what Madeline had said, and could only imagine the hoops Michael would have to jump through to either live up to it or undo the damage.

"Well," Fiona proclaimed, eager to make sure the rest of the table was as lubricated as she was. "I took the liberty of ordering some wine…"

"How about a toast?" Ben suggested. "From the young love birds."

"Yes!" Madeline enthused. "Michael—a toast!"

Michael raised his glass, looked pointedly at Fiona, and said, in the same determinedly even tone, "To supportive partners."

Fiona flexed her jaw as she reluctantly tapped his glass. "Supportive partners."

Between her distracted thoughts and her seldom empty wine glass, Fiona experienced dinner as something of a blur. Normally, she wound have enjoyed Michael's obvious discomfort at his mother's enthusiastic need to communicate the perfection of her new romance. Each reference to Ben's courtship reignited his protective smile, and a story about a spa date actually seemed to separate his mind from his body; though he was physically listening, his eyes were impenetrably glazed. But with each each glass of wine, Michael's discomfort provided less comfort. She didn't want Michael uncomfortable; she wanted him gone, out of her sight and reach. If she couldn't have that, she wanted to smack the fake smile off his face and grab hold of something real, like an M16 or Michael's warm, beating heart.

Finally, the second bottle of rosé had been drained, desert had been consumed, and Madeline and Ben were increasingly lost in their own world, enough for Michael to risk declaring, loudly enough for them to hear him over the din of their giddiness, "Well, this has been _fun_."

"Hasn't it?" Madeline agreed. "I'm so happy you could make _time_ in your _busy schedule_ to join us."

With trained ease, Michael side-stepped her passive aggressiveness. "Did you drive, or…?"

"We took a cab," Madeline replied. "We wanted to _enjoy_ the evening." She practically giggled as she nudged Ben's arm, prompting a reciprocal, hearty chuckle.

"I'm sure Michael can drive you home," Fiona offered. "He's only had a glass and a half of wine."

Michael shot her an intense glance. "You know I'd _love_ to, but I'm sure _Fiona_ would like—"

"I'll take a cab," she interrupted. "It's been a long day, and I'm sure the three of you would appreciate some more time to chat."

"That would be great!" Madeline gushed. "Michael can tell us _all about_ his recent trip out of town, and we can make plans for our next double date!"

Michael affixed Fiona with a final imploring look, which she met with an expression she knew he'd recognize; she'd made up her mind, and wouldn't be swayed without a fight. Personally as well as professionally, Michael was a reluctant fighter; in public, and especially in front of his mother's boyfriend, he'd never dare. Michael's relationship with Madeline was complicated, informed by multiple layers of unresolved hurt. But he did love her; if he didn't, he wouldn't have been there, smiling his fake smile and pretending to drink as much wine as everyone else.

Fiona ended up leaving first while Michael and Ben waited for Madeline to use the restroom. Just before she passed through the arched stone doorway and into the muggy Miami night, Fiona saw the two men standing alone near the concierge desk. Ben leaned close to ask Michael a question, which Michael answered as briefly as possible, his smile faltering into something closer to a grimace. As she slid into the back seat of the cab, Fiona did take some satisfaction from the fact that Michael had journeyed from discomfort into his own personal hell: dodging attempts at male bonding from a man who hoped to become his new father.

The cab driver's mouth was half full of a sandwich as he asked, "Where to?"

Fiona started to give the address for one of the apartment complexes near the loft. But in the time it took for the words to travel from her brain to her lips, she was suddenly consumed by a sickeningly visceral vision of her supposed home. She saw the eclectic furniture, a combination of her most treasured designer pieces and Michael's many makeshift items, most of them scrounged from the street or his mother's garage. She saw the tiny, linoleum-tiled bathroom with her Turkish towels teetering on the edge of the impossibly shallow, brownish-cream bathtub. She felt the rumble of the nightclub through the floor and felt the sticky air that was stirred but never truly cooled by the breeze from the balcony doors.

Fiona closed her mouth, swallowed, and said, "Take me to The Setai."

The driver made a low whistle through his cheek of roast beef, and shifted into drive. "No problem."

The drive was short, but seemed longer, slowed by many lengthy stops for the gaggles of revelers weaving their way in and out of the seemingly endless neon-lit bars, clubs, and hotels that lined the Collins Avenue strip. Fiona rarely took cabs in Miami. In New York, she'd taken them everywhere. For most of her time in Ireland, she'd driven everywhere, and when she'd been with Armand, she'd been driven everywhere. Usually, she'd ridden next to Armand in the back seat of his black Jaguar with the darkly tinted windows. For a time, she'd thought it was glamorous, being picked up outside her flat and having her door opened and closed by the chauffeur who always wore a turtleneck to cover the deep purple scar that curved around his throat. But even when she'd still thought she loved Armand, she'd missed driving with Michael. One of the better parts of finding out Michael McBride was really Michael Westen had been the revelation of his driving skills. Her specialty was speed; his was handling. Whether he was driving a sputtering Lada, a heavy delivery truck, or the unwieldy Charger, Michael knew how to stop on a dime and work a corner. He also knew how to crash, either safely or spectacularly. She liked him just as well in her passenger's seat. Fiona never tired of trying to frighten Michael with her far more reckless cornering, and was even more enamored of the fact that she'd never actually succeeded in scaring him. More than that, she'd often caught Michael watching her in the mirror or across the seat, his lower lip lightly dangling.

Even as she fought to banish Michael's hungry gaze from her mind's eye, it became Armand's, burning with a similar but different hungriness. Michael wanted to taste her; Armand wanted to devour her.

Her hand was already on the door when the cab pulled up in front of The Setai. The shock of stepping back into the humid air helped steady her, enough for her to spend a moment contemplating the grand Art Deco façade—seven stories of smooth, white plaster accented with ivory chevrons above a block-long storefront set with square panes of glass. If she'd had any indecision about entering the hotel, it evaporated when an attendant opened the heavy wooden door, and her skin was kissed with a cool, crisp zephyr of air. Fiona ascended the single step, and went in.

Inside, the Deco style gave way to Asian-inspired décor. The moodily lit lobby was lined with black shale tiles and scattered with pinkish marble tables housing stoneware vases brimming with thick bouquets of red roses. A few couples and a few more business men drifted in and out of the space, but it was, as usual, almost eerily quiet, advertising its luxury through its air of anonymity.

Her stiletto heels clinking like daggers on the tiles, Fiona walked to the junction of the lobby and the gold-carpeted hallway that led to the bar and the elevators for the tower rooms. She'd intended to scam herself a room. At such a large hotel with so many employees so intent on satisfying the individual needs of the wealthy and exclusive guests, it would be a relatively easy task. But it would also require a degree of finesse Fiona wasn't sure she could muster; when she looked toward the check-in desk, the woman standing behind it wouldn't quite stay fixed in her vision, and there was a subtle tremor in her ankle as she balanced her thin heels on the rough tiles. Besides which, unlike Michael, she generally preferred noisy cons, ones that involved intimidation and making a scene. That wouldn't work here; it would only get her quickly escorted off the premises by the armed security guards skulking in the darkened corners of the lobby.

She decided to stop at the bar while she considered her options.

The bar was a long, narrow space lined with the same shale tiles as the lobby, opening onto a courtyard featuring a large reflecting pool dotted with small groupings of immaculately groomed palm trees, their white trunks bending toward the water. The courtyard area was more populated, so Fiona opted to sit inside, at one of the brown suede bar stools facing the Chinese latticework cabinets stocked with a thousand shining bottles. Most of the stools were occupied by friends and couples deeply engrossed in each other's company, some of them enjoying tasting flights presented on burnished brass trays with intricate fruit garnishes. Fiona picked a seat near the corner that gave her the best possible view of the entrance and her alternate escape route, over the bar and out through the supply room.

The bartender had dewy chocolate skin and dark braids with steaks of red and violet piled high on her head, held in place by a vibrant silk scarf patterned with abstract shapes of tropical leaves and birds.

"It's lovely," Fiona told her. "Hermès?"

The bartender touched the scarf, and smiled. "Good eye. What can I get you?"

Fiona's eyes traveled leisurely over the wall of bottles. "What's good?"

"Everything."

"Then bring me a whisky. Two ice cubes. Room temperature glass."

The bartender nodded her appreciation. "No problem."

When her drink arrived, Fiona sipped it noncommittally. For a while, she made a study of a man in a baggy suit at the end of the bar, who seemed to be there for the express purpose of ogling the bartender. Though the bartender struck her as a woman who could handle it, Fiona scowled watching the man's boozy gaze unashamedly zero in on her backside every time she turned or bent to collect a glass. When he placed an order—which was often—he would loom over the bar to get closer, and speak quietly, so that the bartender was forced to close the gap. The middle-aged, Midwestern couple sitting at her right wasn't much better. They kept complaining about the price of drinks but ordering more regardless. Other than their complaints, they barely talked. Instead, they were focused on watching the guests mingling by the reflecting pool, on the hunt for celebrities without understanding that the real celebrities preferred private bars and pools.

The couple at her left were, at the very least, quite obviously in love. In both their mannerisms and aesthetics, they were an exceptionally well-matched pair; they shared the same dark hair, the same roundish build, laughed at the same jokes, liked the same drinks. As she watched them, Fiona found herself remembering her first meeting with Agent Pearce a few days before, when she'd transferred Michael into her care for the mission in the Caribbean. Her first thought had concerned the unexpected attractiveness of Michael's new handler. Her second had concerned how especially attractive she looked next to Michael, her cool professionalism and tall, sporty frame so precisely mirroring and matching his. Fiona knocked back her last half-finger of whisky, and ordered another.

As she contemplated the sweet burn of the first sip of her second drink, a shadow fell over her left shoulder. She turned toward it, and blinked, disbelievingly, up at Michael.

Once she was sure it was really him and not a rosé, whisky, or exhaustion-fueled mirage, she rolled her gaze back to the latticework cabinets and inquired, drily, "What are you doing here?"

Taking the empty stool next to hers, he replied, "I told Ben my mom wanted some 'alone time,' and put them both in a cab. Then I followed you from the restaurant."

"That's not what I asked," she observed.

Michael tried again. "Because you were upset, and I didn't think—"

"Clearly."

His eyes dropped to the bar, then drifted back toward the lobby. "You want me to get you a room?"

"Scam me a room, you mean."

"I guess," he agreed flatly.

Though she'd wanted to hurt him, she regretted her words. It wasn't his poverty she was angry with, and she normally loved watching him work. But nothing felt normal anymore—not since Armand had appeared in her new life, and made her wonder if it was different enough from her old one.

"I can take care of myself," she said, hating those words, too. They sounded like they came from that old self, the one who'd kept Michael at a distance to punish him for doing the same.

"I know," he said. He stood up, then added, "You know where to find me."

Fiona nodded once, but continued to avoid his eyes, unsure of the effect they'd have on her, and not wanting him to see it. Instead, she watched him secretly, following his departure reflected in a hundred tiny, distorted shapes by the glasses and multicolored bottles stacked above the bar. She liked the way his pale suit brought out the tan that had darkened during his time in the Caribbean, and the way his shirt turned his eyes a more cerulean shade of blue. In a perfect world, she would have told him that. As his shape wavered through the green glow of a bottle of Tanqueray, she had a vision of them together—in a bed, or a bath, or a car seat, anywhere she could breathe in the scent of his hair and allow herself to be grateful he hadn't finally succeeded in dying on a faraway scrap of land she'd never know the name of. But short of apologizing, agreeing to return to the loft, or trying to bait him into the type of fight she knew he'd never have in public, she wasn't sure how she could possibly make it real. And so she said nothing, and let him go.

She finished her drink, and signaled the bartender for another. But when it arrived, she merely stared at it, studying the beads of water trickling down the glass as the ice melted in the warmer liquor. The miniature spectacle so engrossed her that she didn't notice another shadow fall across her shoulder until the voice of its owner rattled her ears.

"Is this seat taken?"

Despite the voice, Fiona half-expected it to be Michael. Instead, it was sandy-haired stranger with a well-built body and a nondescript face, the kind of man that was a dime a dozen in Miami yet always thought he was special. For work, he probably ran an import company or a tech startup, something that made him feel big but was heavier on business lunches than actual expertise, and which left him plenty of time for cross-fit, clubbing, and spending his considerable income. He was also obviously married; while he'd been smart enough to remove his ring, the tan line around his finger was clearly visible. In short—he was exactly the type of man she might have taken home at one point in her life, after Armand and before the second coming of Michael, when all she'd wanted was men who thought they were powerful to twist around her finger until it became boring, or unprofitable, or both.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged. Her invitation was meaningless, since he'd already claimed the stool next to hers, draping his bare forearms across the bar.

"Name's Dan. And you are…?"

Still studying her glass, Fiona asked, "What do you do for a living, Dan?"

"I'm in charge of development for a new—"

"And does it make you happy?" She looked at him as she said it, watching his forgettable face work through a series of emotions, from surprise, to indecision, to false bravado.

"It makes me a lot of money, so yeah—I'd say it makes me pretty happy."

"How nice for you," she replied tonelessly, eyes descending back to her untouched drink. His responses were too predictable to be interesting, even as a form of distraction.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, ignorant of her coolness.

"I'm not," she said, pushing her drink away from herself and herself away from the bar. "I was just leaving."

Dan touched her forearm to stop her, and she froze, paralyzed by a jolt of incredulous rage.

"One drink," he pleaded. "I'm a nice guy, I swear."

Fiona affixed him with her most devastating stare, and said, "A _nice_ guy doesn't wake his _wife_ at one in the morning with a call from Miami General nursing a broken arm and two cracked ribs he could have _so easily_ avoided by _not_ pretending to be something he isn't."

Dan's face blanched as he dropped her arm. "Okay. Jesus."

Fiona shook off the memory of his touch and turned to leave, concentrating, significantly more than had been necessary an hour before, on keeping her thin heels out of the wide cracks between the tiles. She was placing her first grateful foot on the hallway carpet when she heard it, muttered under his breath just loud enough to reach her ears through the modest din: "Bitch."

Her coordination returned amid a rush of adrenaline. In the space of a few seconds, she'd spun decisively on her heel and taken three determined steps back into the bar. On her fourth step, she nearly crashed into the body that suddenly blocked her way. She took a stumbling step back and closed her fist, fully prepared to expend her fury upon a proxy. But then she didn't, because it was Michael. And specifically: Michael dressed as a hotel bellboy, complete with a solid black Mandarin collar jacket fastened with Chinese button knots, an obediently erect clipboard, and a smile straight out of a high school yearbook.

Fiona's foot quivered on its delicate base as she fought conflicting desires to kiss him, laugh, and follow through with hitting him anyway, if only to force his ridiculously white teeth back inside his stupid, perfect lips.

"Sorry t'interrupt," he said, extending a small black envelope. "Just wanted t'let you know your room is ready." His accent was that of a Texas transplant trying, but failing, to hide his rural roots.

Fiona took another step back, recovering her balance and herself. "Don't you mean my _suite_?"

Michael's smile ever-so-slightly tightened as he said, "Sorry 'bout that. Must've grabbed the wrong envelope."

"Must have," she echoed, her own smile easy, and self-satisfied.

Fiona followed him part of the way to the check-in desk, then watched his meek approach to the manager on duty whose long years of experience had clearly worn out her patience with bellboy incompetence. Fiona couldn't hear what was said, but to her trained if slightly blurry eye, the pantomime was easy to read. Michael was at least a head taller than the manager, but his slouched shoulders and nervous, downcast eyes played to her sense of superiority, so that when he mumbled a solution, she actually believed the idea had been hers. A few keyboard clicks and some sharp, admonitory words later, Michael returned with another, different envelope.

"Your _suite_, ma'am. Sorry for the mix-up. Computers, y'know?"

Fiona accepted the envelope with a dramatic sigh. "Given how long it took to get _this_ sorted out, what are the chances I won't die of old age before I can get some coffee?"

"Pretty good, ma'am," Michael replied. "I'll bring it up myself. For one?"

Fiona hesitated, enjoying the glimmer of anxiety in the blue eyes that had faded to slate in the moody light. At last, she said, "Make it for two."

Anyone else would have thought Michael's performance was seamless. But Fiona saw the relieved breath he folded into his dutiful reply. "Right away, ma'am."

Fiona waited until he'd started back toward the desk, then called after him. "Oh—and bellboy?"

Michael responded with satisfying promptness. "Yes, ma'am."

"_Don't_ call me ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am."

As he left, Fiona scowled at his back, wondering if the manager had seen him smirk, and hoping it would earn him another reprimand. Once he disappeared around the corner, she made her way down the gold-carpeted hallway to the elevator, rode it to the 18th floor, and stepped out into another gold-carpeted hallway. Her suite was at the end of the hall, which was promising—it meant it occupied a corner. She swiped the door open with her key card and pushed it back to reveal a wonderland of wood, gold, and cream infused with the smell of leather and roses.

She inhaled deeply as she closed the door behind her and stepped out of her shoes, her tired feet melting into the subtle grooves of the teak hardwood floor. Dropping her shoes in the corridor, she walked through the sitting room lined with beige velvet armchairs and deep-seated, brown suede sofas and proceeded into the bedroom, flipping on lights as she went. The hand-carved, four-poster kind-size bed was the focal point of the room, perched on a cool blue carpet the same shade as the Atlantic on a sunny afternoon. The bed was surrounded by rice paper lamps and faced a row of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on both the glittering lights of South Beach and the ocean beyond them, the white sand glowing faintly against the slow rhythm of the blue-black waves.

The first time Armand had taken her to a luxury hotel, it had impressed her. She'd stopped being impressed when it had become clear he'd wanted her to know how much everything cost. Fiona had always liked nice things, but not because they were expensive. She liked them because they were frivolous and, since she'd been less than rich for most of her life, because they were dangerous. Teak hardwood floors and hand-hewn, four poster beds were the décor equivalents of driving too fast when you had nowhere to go—needless, except for an ability to make life more exhilarating, challenging, and dazzling.

Armand had never appreciated danger for danger's sake; his danger had always come at the expense of someone else. Just like his gifts were never really that; they were always really symbols of his power, over others, and over her. She'd known that when she'd asked for his help, and when he'd sneered at the loft she'd worked so hard to turn into a home. She was sure that while he'd been looking into the bomb maker, Armand had learned enough about Michael to be afraid of what he could do, and especially, what he could do teamed up with her. That was why he'd insulted her home and her life—because for all its seeming shabbiness, he was scared of its power. Fiona knew all of that, and even believed it. Yet she couldn't shake the image of Armand, standing next to her balcony's weather-beaten, paint-chipped doors with the morning sun glistening on his midnight-black Zegna suit, looking straight through her.

As she circled the bed, Fiona tossed her clutch onto a tufted leather club chair and then hooked her thumbs under the straps of her dress. The fabric slid off her hips as she continued toward the bathroom. She ignored the crystal clear mirror above the dark granite vanity as she snapped off her silver cuff and shucked the tie out of her hair. Then she stepped into the waterfall shower lined with glossy black tiles, where she lathered her hair and body with floral-scented soaps, and watched the bubbles and a few strands of her hair circle the wide drain at her feet.

She was standing with her back to the mirror squeezing water from her wet locks using a very thick, very white towel when she heard a familiar knock—three quick staccatos followed by two longer notes. On her way to the door, she donned an equally thick white bathrobe, dripping water along the honey-colored floor as she went.

Michael, still dressed in his bellboy uniform, was leaning over a bronze serving cart bearing a jet-black coffee decanter and matching paraphernalia, accompanied by a small plate of glistening, sculpturally arranged lemon slices so fresh she could feel the citrus bite on her tongue mingling with the nutty flavor of the coffee. He glanced at her bare feet, wet hair, and loosely tied robe, but remained in character as he said, "Your coffee, Miss. D'you mind if I…?"

Fiona stepped aside as he wheeled in the cart that would have been too short for him if he weren't still slouching, maintaining his disguise until the door clunked shut. Though it had once broken her heart, Fiona couldn't help marveling at the quickness and ease with which Michael could change from one mode of being to another. In the moment it took him to release the cart and turn toward her, he seemed to grow three inches taller, his hair became purposely rather than carelessly disheveled, and he'd somehow managed to loosen the collar of his jacket and turn up the edges of his cuffs, exposing his tanned wrists and a hint of his equally tanned collarbone. Fiona looked at him standing next to the rich suede sofa, his square, black shoulders framed by the dark, dappled sky above the ocean, and felt the whisky warmth of her cheeks pour through her chest and down, into her gut and her upsettingly empty hands, still starved for something real. Since an M16 wasn't available, Michael would have to do.

If Michael knew what she was thinking, he didn't show it. Instead of closing the distance between them and using the loose belt of her robe to pull her into his body, he crossed his arms over his chest and said, in his own voice, "Fi, about Armand—"

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

Michael abandoned his intended words, and regarded her quizzically. But Fiona stood her ground, mind and body united in resisting the proposed intrusion of recent events.

"You're still on duty," she reminded him.

"I get off at 2," Michael offered, trying to feel out her game.

Fiona pursed her bare lips, then said, "I'll bet you finish sooner."

Michael's eyes flickered from the coffee, to the bed, and back to her. He'd finally grasped the game, but not the rules. "Milk, or cream?"

"Black," she replied. "I like it strong."

"And where do you want it?"

"I'll _take _it in the bedroom."

Slowly, Michael uncrossed his arms, turned, and bent over the cart. Fiona followed his backside into the bedroom, stopping by the bed to watch him park and pour out a single cup of black coffee. When he was done, he didn't hand her the cup. He merely straightened, and looked at her, his slate gaze inscrutable.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"You can take off your jacket," Fiona replied. "And your pants."

Michael's eyes blinked, but didn't falter. She knew she had him in a bind. He'd never been one to leave a mission unfinished; having already committed significant resources, he was duty bound to see it through. So he did what she told him, silently, and without urgency. When he'd stripped down to his boxers, he stopped, awaiting further instruction.

Fiona let her gaze travel over his hard curves, so like they'd always been. A decade ago, he'd been ganglier, his lean muscles clinging almost desperately to his graceful bones. But she was sure, with a conviction that exceeded logic, that whether he died tomorrow or lived a hundred years, Michael would always have the same level shoulders, the same smooth, subtle pecs, the same narrow hips, the same taut stomach, the same long legs, and the same high, tight ass. It was a body built to run, and to last, its beauty incidental, but fundamental. She was just as certain about his handsomely incongruous face, marked by lines and scars of experience, yet capable of a boyishness that defied his real age as well as his real boyhood, where he'd earned at least one of his most visible scars.

He had, however, returned from the Caribbean with new bruises; there was a yellowing curve along his ribs and a dark purple splotch down the side of his left thigh. By their shape and placement, Fiona could guess what had made them; one was from an elbow, the other the butt of a rifle. Fiona had seen worse, on her own body, and Michael's. Yet for the second time that evening, she found herself recalling her meeting with Pearce at the pier. Pearce had said she'd take care of him, but had sent him back broken, like always. What had Pearce done to earn the privilege of hurting him, besides obey the orders of a bureaucracy that didn't care if its operatives lived or died, and had proven it by getting her fiancé killed?

With a steadying breath, Fiona collected herself, and said, "Sit down—on the bed."

Michael passed very close to her on the way, fingertips almost but not quite ghosting along her thigh, teasing her control. It wasn't something the old Michael Westen would have done; the old Michael would have exploited his power without acknowledging it or truly letting her share it. But the new Michael, the one who shared her bed both within crises and between them, was more willing to let her in. And Fiona's wine and whisky-warm flesh was very willing to come, her skin prickling as she swayed toward his warmth. But she didn't give in, determined to have more—much more.

As he sat, she stepped toward him, letting the edge of her robe tickle his knees. Michael placed his hands behind him on the bed and looked up at her, observably cool if not for the revealing shape of his underwear and the motion of his chest, his bruised ribs moving a bit too expressively in and out. Fiona took one step, and another, until her thighs were framing his. Then she laid her hands on his shoulders and raised each of her knees, placing them, one at a time, on the mattress. She lingered there for a moment, stroking her hands through his hair, from his temples to the back of his neck, his ribs brushing her robe at the height of each deep breath. His skin smelled of sandalwood and his hair was a muted blend of citrus and mint, overwhelmed, as always, by his own, unique scent—the one she couldn't name, because it was more of a feeling than a smell, and never seemed to change, whether he was fresh from the shower or plastered with dirt and sweat. Finally, she lowered herself onto his lap.

Michael's body sighed into hers as she adjusted her weight around his thighs. When she dipped to kiss him, his hands slipped around her waist. But before he could fold them into the small of her back, she captured his wrists, and pulled them back.

"Remember," she said, "you work for me."

Michael bit his cheek, but obeyed, letting her guide his hands back to the bed. Fiona pinned them to the mattress behind his back, and then slowly, deliberately seized his mouth. She kissed him once, deeply, and again, roughly, her tongue twisting with the rhythm of her hips while Michael fought to stop his wrists from twisting in her hands, his fingers stiff on the bedspread.

It was a small thing to slip off her robe, and a slightly harder thing to get Michael out of his boxers without freeing his hands. But then, at last, they were there, together, her heat sliding onto his, squeezing, and rocking, forward, and back. Michael groaned and she devoured the sound, his throat rumbling in hers. When she broke the kiss, he strained to retrieve it, arms and chest flexing against her grip. She gave him her neck instead, and he took it, caressing her jaw with wet kisses and tiny, low murmurs of pleasure and need. Then she arched her spine to give him her breasts, and arched again out of his reach. Her thighs maintained a tenuous hold as she met his close gaze, watching his eyes flash dark with resurgent anger while her own eyes shone with the glory of her power. He was completely, helplessly hers, to have, or hurt, or please, his pleasure at hers.

Time slowed through her hips, and his breath, and the motion of his eyelids blinking once, then opening again into hers. This time, his steely gaze was different, the heat of anger replaced with something cooler, darker, and so entirely Michael that for a moment, her grip on her own anger wavered, tempted by a surge of something bigger and older than rage.

Things accelerated with a literal bang. In a single, sharp motion, Michael dropped his arms and kicked both legs into the air, swinging them around her back until his heels locked in her tailbone. Caught inside the judo grip of his thighs, Fiona lurched forward, cheek slamming into his neck as his back and shoulders bounced and sank into the mattress under her weight. She panted a curse into his ear even as the rest of her reeled with pleasure, her breasts grinding where they'd crashed against his harder, flatter chest. The twitch of Michael's taunting smile against her cheek made her reel the other way, back into action. She recaptured his wrists and flung them above his head, pinning him inside his own hold. In response, Michael dropped his left leg to vault himself into her hips, and hooked his right foot under her ass, speeding the squeaky friction of their chests.

She couldn't smell him anymore, or even taste him. She could only feel and dimly hear him, his ragged breath lost in hers as she gulped air through the wet tangle of her hair and urged the tight, hard knot of their bodies into tighter, harder knots. Each thrust nailed Michael deeper into the bed, and each release thrust him deeper into the center of herself, which made her grip firmer, her hands and arms a vise around the twitching, tensing motion of his as he struggled with wanting to struggle free, but didn't. All the while she sucked and swallowed his pleasure along with his protests, from his lips, his neck, his jugular. She couldn't see, but knew—he wasn't smiling anymore.

The heat and pressure combusted like all the best explosions, in a glorious fire that surged from her gut up her back to her brain, where it shattered any ability to control her limbs or care. Still holding Michael's wrists, Fiona collapsed all the way into his chest, lost in the dumb bliss of her thudding heart consuming his.

After a time, she felt Michael's hands stirring, his nose nuzzling her ear. She unhanded his wrists and pushed herself off his body, crawling toward the undisturbed pillows. Michael followed her, dropping his head back into the pillow next to hers.

"So…" he began. "That was…"

"Great," she supplied, blinking into the sickle-shaped shadows of the lights on the ceiling.

"Among other things…"

Fiona ignored him as she threw back the blankets and worked her way under them. She wanted to drift off and wake up just in time for the next crisis, so they wouldn't have to talk, and she wouldn't have to think—about Armand, or Michael, or Pearce, or herself, or anything else besides staying alive and afloat and out of jail.

But Michael, the same man who'd once let her attempt to break his arm rather than talk about their relationship, seemed determined to thwart her plans. "Do you want—"

"I just want to sleep," she insisted, burying her cheek in the pillow. "It's been a long day."

"Right…"

To his credit, Michael made an effort to let it go. She could feel him try to make himself comfortable against her body, legs sliding against hers under the sheets. But despite her own best efforts to tune out the world, Fiona could sense the tension building in his body, tensing her body in turn.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "About Armand. If I'd known…"

"It's…" she couldn't quite bring herself to say it was okay. "It doesn't matter."

There was another long silence, which ended with Michael saying, in a lower voice, "It sort of _seemed_ like it mattered a few minutes ago…"

Fiona expelled an angry breath as she rolled out of the bed and onto her feet. She shrugged on her bathrobe and stalked toward the window, veering away from the red roses on the hammered copper side table, their suddenly cloying aroma sticking and congealing in her scratchy throat.

Michael sighed as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Fi, I want to understand—I do. But I _asked_ and you said—"

"Well you should have tried harder," she said, spitting the words like they were the roses threatening to choke her.

"I'm trying now, Fi."

She looked at him, sitting naked on the sheets that were only slightly paler than the parts of his body that seldom met the sun. She took in his black hair still bent from her grip, the cut on his forehead he'd brought back with his bruises, his pink, swollen lips, his sweat-misted chest, his sticky thighs, and his hands, carefully massaging his red wrists. She felt proud a moment before she felt sicker, her tongue lying like a dry, dead thing between her teeth.

With an effort, she forced saliva into her gums, and said, "I didn't tell you, because I didn't want you to know."

"Why?"

She turned back to the window. "Because I should have been better." Toes curling into the hardwood, she amended. "Because I should have _known_better." She formed two fists at her sides, and amended again, "Because I _did_ know better, and did it anyway." She released her fists and added, in a softer voice, "Because it was for you."

"Fi…"

"Don't, just—don't."

She struggled to get the words out. Everything she'd tried so hard to bury in rage and revenge was surging in her chest and clawing its way up, closing around her windpipe and clamping over her jaw.

And then suddenly, Michael was there, with a glass of icy water and the solid warmth of himself. Fiona accepted the water, took a long sip, and set it down on the table. Michael continued to hover by her shoulder, clearly anxious, to a degree he never would have been about a thousand death-defying stunts, to attempt something so many other people did every day. With a surge of feeling, Fiona initiated the hug herself, stepping into his body and dropping her forehead wearily into his chest. He encircled her with strong arms and a small, silent sigh, his hands finally slipping into the hollow of her back. Fiona's own hands slid under his arms, feeling his shoulder blades flex to cinch her closer, both of them finally holding something real.

Armand wasn't the only man who'd killed for her. Michael had killed for her, too. But not for the chance of meeting her, or the satisfaction of keeping her. Michael had killed bad people to save her; she'd done the same for him. And all for this—so they could live, fight, cry, and love, sometimes apart, but always together.

Her forehead was still on his chest, her breath a heady mixture of her scent and his, when she said, "It's worth it... Isn't it?"

Michael considered her words, his hands moving slowly up and down her spine. At last, he said, "I hope so."

When they were ready, they went back to the bed. She laid with her cheek in the crook of his shoulder and her leg slung over his middle, half-in and half-out of the cool river of sheets. Together, they watched the endless rhythm of the dark waves crashing on the pale shore. As she traced a sympathetic rhythm on Michael's chest, Fiona couldn't decide whether the ocean seemed too far away, or too close. The lifeguard towers were little more than black specs, yet she was sure she could hear the slow roar and hiss of the waves, building, and breaking, and building again.

In the lull between the next roar, she said, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For coming back."

The fingers tracing his chest felt him swallow. "You shouldn't have to thank me for that."

"Then I guess I'll thank the CIA." She hadn't meant her quip to sound bitter, but bitterness had a way of overwhelming her where the CIA was concerned.

For several long heartbeats, the waves crashed in, and out. Then Michael took a breath, and said, "At first, it was an extraction. Then it became an infiltration of a private security firm to hunt down a file on an NSA leak. That meant me, Pearce, and Jesse, armed with handguns against a 50-man militia."

Fiona's fingers missed a beat, but recovered. "That sounds bad."

"It was. But... It's over now."

"Until the next job."

"Until the next job," he agreed.

There were so many questions she wanted to ask. She wanted to know how Michael had talked 50 men into helping him instead of shooting him. She wanted to know if Pearce cared as much for her team as her mission. And she especially wanted to know how many undermanned and underpaid jobs there'd be until they could be sure the CIA wasn't going to change its mind about locking Michael up so far underground that none of she, Jesse, or Sam would ever be able be to dig him out. But she didn't. From the reverence of Michael's calloused fingers stroking her thigh, she could tell that he was worried, too.

As a compromise, Fiona turned down a different, almost equally dangerous track. "Is it anything like you thought?"

"What?"

"Being together. Being _normal_."

Michael uttered a small, amused noise. "Is that what we are?"

Recalling his discomfort at the dinner table, she quipped, "At least I'm not dragging you to stretching class."

Michael actually squirmed in her grip. "Can we _not_ talk about—"

"Then let's talk about you and Pearce."

That suggestion made him to go perfectly still. "_What_ about me and Pearce?"

"Does she like you?"

"_Like_ me?"

Fiona shrugged against his body. "She's pretty... If you're into that sort of thing."

"Pearce _likes_ to send me on impossible missions I'm lucky to come back from."

"Because she likes you," Fiona maintained.

Michael made a sound under his breath as he shifted again under her weight. "Pearce is _not_ my type—trust me."

"But she's so…" Fiona searched for the right word, and landed on "...professional."

"Exactly."

"You don't like good girls?"

Michael smirked. "If I did, would I be here?"

"Charming," she deadpanned.

"You know what I mean," he said, lips dusting her forehead.

She meant to agree, but instead she asked, in a voice so small even she could barely hear it, "What if I don't?"

Michael slid his hand deeper into her back, and said, "The girl I like is better than good."

That was the right answer. Fiona blinked once more at the ocean, then smiled, and hid her damp eyes in his shoulder.

Sometime later, on the cusp of sleep, she couldn't resist a final provocation. "I don't think you need it, anyway."

"What?" he mumbled back.

"Stretching class."

But even as she conjured the mental image of his chaste embarrassment, he curled his rough right hand into the space between her breasts, hugged her naked curves along the full length of his, and said, "Thanks for keeping me limber."

Fiona released a surprised but appreciative snort into the pillow, and leaned back into his perfect copy of her shape. Michael Westen whispering sexy jokes against her neck was definitely new. But it was, she decided, a change she could live with.

* * *

She woke when Michael did, shifting her weight to accommodate him as he stretched to read the face of the cherrywood clock on the nightstand.

"What time is it?"

"A little after six," he replied.

"Good," she sighed, willing her developing headache back into submission. "Wake me at check-out."

But as she started to settle back into the pillow, Michael began to sit up.

Out of obligation more than interest, she said, flatly, "What is it."

"We, uh… We actually have to go."

Fiona propped herself up against the headboard, blinking into the dim light. "What do you—"

"You're the mistress of a New York investment banker," Michael explained, "whose plane was weather-delayed, but was scheduled to land…" he checked the clock again. "About ten minutes ago."

Fiona sat up straighter for the sole purpose of enabling her incredulous stare.

"I scammed you a _room_," Michael reminded her. "But you wanted a _suite_…"

Fiona scrunched her eyes shut, indulging a moment of impotent fury. When she opened her eyes, she was resigned to her fate. "I'll meet you out front in five minutes."

As she started to climb out of bed, Michael hesitated.

"What now?" she sighed.

"My clothes are in the kitchen, so…"

Fiona rolled her eyes as she pushed herself the rest of the way onto her feet. "I'll pick you up. Service entrance?"

"That would be best."

As she stumbled toward the bathroom, Michael called after her.

"Oh, and Fi?"

"_What_." When she glared at him over her shoulder, he was a bit too focused on zipping up his stolen pants.

"You might want to keep the motor running."

Applying an improbable burst of speed, he just managed to slip out the door before she could get close enough to throw him through it.

Four minutes and forty-five seconds later, Fiona was sitting behind the wheel of the idling Charger, watching the alley that led to the large steel doors of The Setai's service entrance. Her fingers drummed impatiently on the white steering wheel, and when she shifted her weight, the seat was tacky against her bare thighs and shoulders. The suite's crisp air conditioning and decadently soft linens felt a million miles away; the waterfall shower felt even further.

Her mood improved significantly when Michael finally appeared in her side mirror, stumbling more than darting into the alley, wearing one shoe and carrying the other, his gray sharkskin jacket and unbuttoned lavender shirt dangling off his left shoulder. He recovered his balance to run the rest of the way to the car, sparing a single glance behind him as he swung open the passenger's side door and dropped into the white seat.

"Go," he urged.

Because it was fun and she knew Michael would hate it, Fiona burned the tires as she peeled out of the parking lot, one eye on the road and the other on the burly, armed security guards in her rear view, who burst into the alley where Michael had been, jogged a few feet, then started punching buttons on their walkie-talkies.

Nonchalantly, she asked, "Should I be worried?"

Michael replied, "Not unless you've forgotten how to drive."

She grinned as she hit the gas and threw Michael back in his seat. He braced himself against the dash to make a belated grab for his seat belt, but he was smiling, too—genuinely, and boyishly, without any particular effort to hide it. For a while, she kept up her pace, making a few extra, precautionary detours while Michael watched the mirrors, and her, and finished buttoning his shirt. By the time they reached the causeway, he'd relaxed in his seat, and she'd slowed enough to blend into the traffic.

The sun was rising behind them, glancing off the choppy water and the downtown skyline. Directly ahead, the sky was a washed-out blue between the gleaming silver towers, and the cottony clouds were dusty pink amid their peaks. The higher, darker clouds were moving rightward in the wind, as though the sky was spinning around the bridges and buildings anchored to the base of the larger-than-life snow globe that was Miami.

It took a few minutes to cross the causeway. Fiona was sure of it; she'd driven it a thousand times, at every time of day. But on this particular day, she could have sworn it took a lifetime. Or maybe, she wanted it to. She could imagine worse ways to spend her life than behind the wheel of a vintage muscle car next to a dark-haired, blue-eyed man still drenched in her scent and the tang of spent adrenaline, who was willing to court danger for her sake and the hell of it, and trusted her so completely he was already nearly asleep in the passenger's seat, the tropical sunrise drizzling down his pale eyelids to his stubble-dusted cheek and his peaked, parted lips.

The ringing phone startled them both. Michael jerked to attention and began rummaging through his disheveled suit, finally withdrawing the offending phone from somewhere under his backside.

"Hi, Mom... No, we're up... Now?... No, no, it's just... You don't have to... Right. Okay, see you soon."

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and said, "My mom wants to come over. She says she has some kind of 'thank you' present for last night."

"Should I be worried?"

"Maybe."

Fiona rolled her shoulders, and flexed her hands on the wheel. "I should have had that coffee."

"We could stop at the—"

"No."

Michael looked at her, his eyes the same blue as the sky, his face a mirror of hers—exhausted, but calm, the kind of delirious, transcendent calm that comes from taking all the wrong roads to exactly the right place.

Fiona turned back toward the skyline with the sun at her back, and said, "Let's go home."

And they did—not for the first time, and certainly not the last.

**~END~**

* * *

**A/N:** As always—thank you so much for reading.

While I remain a touch undecided, I'm fairly certain this is going to be my final chapter. The past year kicked my butt in a bunch of different ways, and while things are getting better now, I need to focus, for the time being, on a few other things.

But—I didn't want step away without giving this series a fitting send-off, and I very much hope this fit the bill. I tried to include as many of my favorite Michael/Fiona things as possible, and knew I wanted it to end with them driving into the future—happily, and endlessly. Discovering this show, writing this series, and reading so many fabulous stories set in this world has meant a great deal to me, and helped me through some difficult times—I can't thank you enough for sharing the journey.


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